


My Voice Will Go With You

by Greenlips24



Series: Athos the Hypnotherapist [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-04-29 22:14:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 43,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14482320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greenlips24/pseuds/Greenlips24
Summary: Sequel to "The Sound Of My Voice"Modern AU drama. George Villers' reach is far, even when incarcerated. Athos and Porthos helped bring about his downfall, together with his "wife," Clarisse. Here, they all meet once more as he seeks his revenge. First though, they must find d'Artagnan, who is on a mission of his own. Soon, they are drawn into a fight for survival.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Brief synopsis of Prequel:**
> 
> Having left the Army, Athos is now a successful Psychologist and Clinical Hypnotherapist with a Harley Street Practise. When Clarisse Villiers comes into his life as a client, she draws him into a dangerous game in order to bring down her husband, Lord George Villiers, who for years has been running a drug smuggling organisation. He finally meets his downfall, and Clarisse disappears with a pardon and the haul of precious gems she took from the safe when she handed Special Forces agent d'Artagnan the file on Villier's operations.

**CHAPTER ONE**

**A Surprise!**

_Well, this is a blast from the past, she thought ... reaching for her phone._

“Hello Hothead,” she whispered from her vantage point overlooking Notre Dame.

“I thought our business was concluded,” she added, hitting the record button.

When he did not answer, she turned away from the window and frowned.

It had been almost a year since she had last heard from him. She had kept the phone they had communicated with. It was always useful to have such a phone in her line of work. In fact, she had three cell phones. Who knew when she may need one? 

This one however, was her only satellite phone.

Maybe she had kept it for sentimental reasons. That brought a cynical smile to her lips. Sentimentality was quite beyond her.

Listening intently now, she could make out faint sounds.

When she heard a scream, she very nearly dropped the damned phone in shock.

It was the whimpering that really had her attention.

She kept the line open, listening; recording silence now.

After what seemed like a long time, she heard a faint voice. 

A faint, familiar surprised voice.

“Clarisse??”

She sighed.

“No, Mother Teresa. Who do you think it is? It’s your damned phone!!”

But he cut her off with two curt words, before the line went dead.

“Tell Athos ...”

Before she could reply, he was gone.

**oOo**

Later, she sat at the back of a little cafe on the Boulevard de Clichy and listened to it again. Then she sat and turned the phone over and over in her hand, thinking; uneasy. She didn’t need this.

d’Artagnan had given the phone to her last year he was her control. She had thought it was an ordinary cell phone and had just tossed it into her bag, answering it whenever she heard the distinctive tone she had allocated to him . Save for the slightly thicker antennae that folded neatly down the side, it was small and compact. It was, he had explained later, a satellite phone. That was probably why she kept it. It was an expensive piece of kit. She did not know it was also a two way radio. He had not told her that. Maybe he did not need to. He had only called her rarely, just to chivvie her along in her task; setting up George Villiers, her so-called husband.

Hothead was still paying for it. Maybe he had forgotten she had it, but the monthly fees just kept rolling on, and were subsequently paid.

It had a high capacity battery. She had only ever charged it once, and then it did not really need it. Its global reach was quite impressive. This one had a “push to talk” function for privacy and was shock resistant and jet water resistant. And encryption encoded. Nice.

She hadn’t realised it was in her bag on this trip until the thing squawked at her.

Lost in thought, she drifted back to the night in Kensington almost a year ago, when he had entered her home with his team, and she had retrieved the file from the safe that would incriminate her “husband,” George Villiers and send him to prison. She had not seen or heard from d’Artagnan since.

She had slipped away in the aftermath of George Villiers arrest at their home in Kensington and had made a new life for herself on the proceeds of the gems she had also taken from the safe.

After a final meeting with Athos, when they had both reunited past lives Ann and Olivier through an intense but successful hypnosis session, her business with him was also concluded. 

Although she had not forgotten Athos.

She had fond memories of _him._

They had almost died at the hands of her “husband.” Porthos too. But it had all worked out in the end. Especially for her.

She sighed. It was September. She knew they would all be in Picardy, at Athos’s chateau for their annual month long get together. They would be expecting d’Artagnan to join them.

She didn’t owe either of them anything, she told herself.

But the scream had been unnerving. 

She was not due home for several weeks, and her current mark was going nowhere; she could pick up this heist in a few days.

She thought about seeing Athos again. The minute she had walked into his office that first day last year, she had been attracted to him. She knew it could never be; they were not meant to be together, but the snatched moments she had spent with him, sniping and teasing, and other things, had been the best of her life.

But he knew nothing of her life now, and he certainly would not approve.

No doubt he had some else now.

Someone safe ... legitimate ... boring.

A visit to Picardy might be nice.

**oOo**

**Heathrow Airport – First day of September.**

Porthos was already at Heathrow when Athos strode through the automatic doors, pulling his suitcase behind him, backpack on his shoulder.

They had not seen each other for several weeks, but this annual holiday to Athos’s chateau, “la Fere,” in Picardy was a real treat. Porthos had called it the “Crash Mansion” when he had first heard about it and the label had stuck. It was the third of Athos’s properties, and as with the other two, he was generous in sharing them with his brothers. Picardy was a particular favourite with them. They all took the month of September to meet up there and reaffirm their brotherhood and relax once more in each other’s company. 

The house itself stood on the footprint of the old building, part of which was burned down in the early 1600’s. Half of it was rented out to families in the summer months, the rest was free to accommodate Athos and his guests.

The garden at the rear of the house was a delight, with an established orchard. It was a private space surrounded by fruit trees, vines and creepers snaking up the rear walls. Japanese flowering cherry trees grew through an array of wildflowers, giving an overall impression of soft control.

Aramis was due to arrive in three days, and d’Artagnan whenever he could, his workload with Special Forces permitting. No-one had heard from him for a while, so it would be good to catch up. However, they knew he could be literally anywhere in the world, and as previously serving soldiers, they all respected the secrecy of his role, and the Official Secrets Act that they had all signed at one point.

Porthos could see that Athos was tired as they clasped each other in a brotherly embrace. It had been a busy time at his Harley Street hypnotherapy practise. He was in demand and he was one female therapist down so he had had to manage a variety of female placements and otherwise turn work down.

Constance would be joining him in the practise soon, as a temporary stand-in, and for however long it took to find a permanent replacement. She had some clients of her own in London so it worked out for her as well. It saved them travelling to see her at her practise in Geneva and allowed her to help her dear friend Athos, who she had met on their training course several years ago.

“Sexist,” Porthos laughed, when Athos explained.

“No, it’s quite legitimate – some females like a female therapist. It is all about trust, you are asking them to sit in a room with a stranger and close their eyes and give themselves over to their inner experience. I like to offer them the choice,” Athos replied.

They checked in and headed to the bar.

“And how is the lovely Ninon?” Porthos asked as they waited for their flight to show up on the electronic Departures board on their left.

“She is well.” Athos said, offering no more.

“You doin’ as you’re told?” Porthos chuckled.

“She’s not like that,” Athos sighed.

Ninon was beautiful, but formidable. She was Constance’s best friend, and she and Athos had reacquainted themselves with each other after the Villier’s affair. But, like Constance, she lived in Geneva, so it was a somewhat long distance relationship.

“She’s a ravin’ feminist,” Porthos scoffed. He liked Ninon, she was very easy on the eye; but she was too tough for his taste. Athos always seemed to attract strong, opinionated women, whereas his taste was for those who brought out his protective, caring side. 

Athos sighed.

“I admit she does have some strong, sometimes rather radical views; but we have begged to differ on several of them,” Athos replied, keeping an eye on the electronic board. 

“Ha! Just as I thought!”

_“Porthos ...”_ Athos drew his name out in a low exaggerated drawl, intending to put a halt to his teasing, but he couldn’t keep the smile out of his voice.

Their flight was due in forty minutes, and so far there was no indication that it would be delayed. He couldn’t wait to get there and forget about the UK for four glorious weeks.

Porthos merely put his head back and laughed even louder.

“Just friends with benefits, then.” Porthos said, picking up their glasses and heading back to the bar. Athos could hear him quietly laughing. After a few moments, he shook his head and smiled. Porthos was incorrigible. 

Luckily, Porthos could also take a hint, and when he came back with their refills, he made a point of changing the subject, and they spent the next half hour catching up, before their flight was called and they headed to the Departure Lounge.

Porthos threw his arm around Athos’s shoulder as they walked, and Athos felt himself relax for the first time in weeks.

It was going to be a good September.

**To Be Continued ...**


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some historical references in this chapter that relate to the prequel "The Sound of My Voice."

**CHAPTER TWO**

**Two weeks later: September – The La Fere Estate, Picardy.**

It was noon. The warm air was heavy with the fragrance of the many flowers that cascaded over the low walls of the patio.

Athos was sitting quietly beneath the large iron pergola at the well used wooden table, where they would all sit for much of the time, putting the world to rights.

Slightly distracted by the wonderful aromas floating from the kitchen through the French doors, he was checking the Financial Times. It was a rare thing for him to do, but today he was interested in a particular company’s share value.

Smiling to himself, he folded the paper.

“Another shed load of money just roll in?” Porthos laughed, sitting on one of the nearby low stone walls, gently throwing crumbs to the birds that dared to venture his way

“It would seem that way, but it will roll out soon enough, my friend.”

Porthos’s youth projects in London would now run for another few years, although he would not know who his mysterious benefactor was. It would be credited amongst other fundraising sums, paid in regular small charitable amounts so Porthos would not be suspicious. Athos knew Porthos was putting his own money into his projects and this would allow his friend to channel his income back into his account to cover his own living arrangements. Porthos had inherited a property which had allowed him to retire from the Army, but he wanted the best for the underprivileged kids he worked with; he was in his element, always thinking up new experiences and adventures for them, which inevitably cost an ever-increasing amount of money.

Constance had arrived at La Fere at the end of the first week, having quickly found a permanent replacement female for Athos’s practise in London. His reputation meant that he did not have to wait long for vacancies to be filled. The new therapist had been willing and eager to start almost immediately, which meant Constance did not have to remain in Harley Street and could fly out to Paris and on to La Fere for their annual get together.

“I think you’ll like her Athos,” she had said, when she had phoned him with the good news.

“As long as you do, and she is good with the clients,” he had answered, totally trusting her judgement.

“Although,” she had added mischievously, “the clients always ask for you.”

“Do they?” he answered absently, unaware of his popularity.

“Well, I am sure she will have plenty to do,” he had added, before quietly thanking her and telling her to get herself on the next plane to La Fere. She had wasted no time in doing so.

She now stepped out of the house with Aramis, carrying lunch between them, and joined Athos at the table.

“I wonder if d’Artagnan will be able to join us, we have just over two weeks left before we go back to our lives,” Athos wondered out loud, not for the first time.

“I am sure he will do his best, mon ami,” Aramis replied. “We will probably look up one afternoon and see him abseiling down the wall,” he added, waving an arm dramatically toward the eaves of the roof, lost in a happy reverie.

“I hope not,” Athos replied, peering up at the wall of his home.

“Well,” Porthos said, helping himself to the pasta Constance had placed on the table, “he will if he can, and if he can’t he usually lets us know one way or another.”

d’Artagnan was a Special Forces operative and of all of them, he was the one who was the most erratic in his appearance for their annual break; only appearing as his schedule permitted. He usually managed to make an appearance and it always did him the world of good to reconnect with them and take in the peace and quiet of the French countryside.

So far, however, his silence had been deafening.

Athos was still staring up at the facade of his home, when a movement to his left caught his eye.

Turning his head, he allowed his jaw to drop. 

“My God,” he said quietly as they all looked up.

The familiar glare he received stopped him making any sarcastic comment.

“Don’t worry, Athos, it’s not a social call.”

Clarisse, resplendent in a white figure-hugging dress, sauntered over to the table and handed the satellite phone to him, before sinking gracefully onto a nearby chair.

“If you are waiting for d’Artagnan, I don’t think he’ll be joining you.” 

**oOo**

After listening several times on speakerphone to the message Clarisse had recorded, they were all in shock; all thoughts of warm, sunny days and pasta forgotten. Grim-faced, they moved into the house and settled in the sitting room, all totally lost as to what to do.

Constance sat with her hands to her mouth, rocking slightly, the ungodly sounds in the recording unnerving her still. Porthos moved away from the window sill he had been sitting on and sat down beside her, drawing her into a tight hug.

After a few moments of unnatural silence, Athos took charge.

“Your phone is encrypted. We need to decipher it,” Athos said firmly, looking at Clarisse. The phone sat on the coffee table in front of them; the purveyor of destroyed September expectations.

“Can _we_ do that?” Aramis asked, looking at them in bemusement.

“Decoding algorithms? No, we need a specialist,” Athos replied.

“We need Albie,” Porthos suddenly said.

“Albie?” Aramis asked.

“Yeah, tech guy,” Porthos answered.

“Is he legit?” Aramis asked.

“Aramis, please,” Porthos replied. “’Course he isn’t.”

“But he saved _your_ life,” Athos replied quietly, looking at Aramis, who raised his eyebrows.

During their tour in Afghanistan, it was Albie who had decoded Taliban communications and was able to pinpoint the Chinook helicopter that had gone down in Helmand, with Aramis on board. Aramis had been a trauma surgeon at Camp Bastion Hospital and was on a mercy mission with several other medics. Albie’s intervention had led to the successful safe recovery of all on board, although the helicopter did not fare so well, destroyed by the Americans to avoid it falling into enemy hands.

Constance had listened with growing impatience and concern. She and d’Artagnan were in an, albeit long distance and unpredictable, relationship, snatching time together when they could. Now, as the initial shock wore off, Constance was becoming angry. She had watched as Clarisse had disappeared back into the garden, before giving vent to her frustration.

“She always brings trouble with her!” Constance hissed at Aramis. She had never met Clarisse but knew what had happened with her husband, George Villiers. She knew Villiers’ man Marcheaux had nearly killed Athos and Porthos in her Kensington house.

“She does seem to have that ability,” Aramis agreed, leaning over and taking her hand. He knew she was worried for d’Artagnan. She had been looking forward to seeing him again. It was a testament to their love that they were managing to maintain a relationship between her business in Geneva and wherever d’Artagnan was at any given time.

d’Artagnan had dismantled half of Villiers European/Asian drug and arms dealing network during that time, but not all of it. She knew that still rankled with him.

She now dreaded to think what he had got himself into.

**oOo**

**ALBIE**

“Albie” spent his time in front of a bank of flat computer screens, in an enclosed room in the East End of London. There were no windows and if there had been, the blinds would have been tightly shut.

He adjusted his glasses for the fifth time as he poured over the triple cypher algorithms scrolling down the screen. The satphone that Porthos had brought him that morning on the first flight from Paris was currently downloading; plugged into a separate unit. One of his own design. 

Albie loved decoding. Ever since he was a child, enclosed in his bedroom, he had honed his particular skills. Hacking was never his thing; it cost too many people too much stress. He would never do that. But as a student, he had come to the attention of “the authorities,” particularly the military, when he had, entirely accidentally, intercepted Taliban transmissions and had been summarily whisked away to a remote location.

When the men first came storming into his room, a mile from campus, they had no ideas what they would find.

A twenty year old albino male was not on their list. Once they found him, they employed him.

That was several years ago. Now, Albie worked for unseen forces, but forces for good.

He deciphered and decoded; not caring what happened after that. Each contract was a challenge and it was getting more difficult as technology improved; but that only made him more determined. What he did was not always legal, but it was always sanctioned by those in the establishment “for the common good.”

Decoding the algorithms of a satphone was challenging, as many manufacturers were proud of the fact that their particular product could not be deciphered. They did not know Albie. With this one, brought to him by Porthos, he was at last making headway. It was the exact location from a previous communication that was needed, primarily. Porthos had said anything else would be a bonus.

Albie liked Porthos. He did not like many people.

They had met when Porthos was still in the army, training recruits in Helmand Province. Having discovered his particular skills at intercepting communications, Albie had been flown out there for one particular contract that was needed quickly, after an attack on a Chinook helicopter. For an albino, the heat and sun of Afghanistan was purgatory, but they had set him up in his own heavily enforced blackout tent and he had put his head down and deciphered relevant communications. Because of his persistence they had located the downed helicopter. Aramis had been found and returned unharmed back to camp with several other valuable personnel. Porthos found out that Albie had been the main driving force in locating the helicopter. He had made a point of climbing into a jeep and going to find the “Freak Geek,” as everyone unkindly called him.

Porthos had experience of unkind comments and he had struck up a friendship with Albie, as much as Albie would allow; he liked to keep himself to himself, and Porthos had respected his privacy.

It was hard not to stare at the strange young man with white hair, pink eyes and white eyelashes and brows. However, once people had been in his company for a while as he showed them what he did, quite unaware of how important it all was; his strange appearance was forgotten and he was just “Albie.” Porthos didn’t know his real name and had never asked him. Albie knew little about Porthos, because he found interpersonal relationships difficult; technology was all he cared for. But after he left the Army, Porthos had kept in touch; never forgetting the part he had played in Aramis’s rescue. Even though Albie was oblivious of the enormity of that particular accomplishment.

And so it was that Albie once more found himself amid his many computer screens happily deciphering algorithms loaded from the sat phone given to him by Porthos. It was a matter of life and death apparently, though Albie did not know whose and never thought to ask. 

Deciphering sat phones was not an easy task, especially this particular model, but Porthos had supplied him with a large quantity of chocolate coated peanuts, Albie’s favourite energy supplying snack. Of course, that was not his only reward. A considerable amount of money was needed to maintain his required level of technology. This contract was a lucrative one, Porthos had assured him. Once Albie had taken all he needed from the phone, Porthos took it back, and headed to the airport to catch the mid afternoon flight back to Paris, leaving Albie doing what Albie did best.

Porthos wouldn’t ever say they had a friendship, but they did have an understanding, and right now they were all putting their faith in a strange young man undeserving of the name “Freak Geek.” To Porthos, he was a quiet, dedicated young man who he trusted without question.

He only hoped, for d’Artagnan’s sake, that Albie was on form and they wouldn’t have to wait too long.

**To be continued...**


	3. Chapter 3

**Early evening, the same day:**

Athos was sitting on the sofa in the kitchen at La Fere with Clarisse, waiting for the coffee machine to finish spluttering. She had decided to accept his offer to stay. It was her phone, after all, she had said, and she was morbidly curious.

Aramis had collected Porthos from Charles de Gaulle airport and they had returned half an hour ago. The sat phone now lay on the counter in front of them, its content being poured over back in London.

“I ‘ope that trip was worth it,” Porthos grumbled, as he walked in scrubbing his hand down his face, and sat down heavily at the island. He hated early morning flights.

“I fear it is a waiting game,” Athos replied, watching as Porthos reaching out and removing his cup of espresso from the machine, desperate for caffeine.

Athos was right.

They were waiting to hear from Albie, and waiting to see if d’Artagnan would make contact again.

It was a warm evening, and they sat in a companionable but heavy silence, only punctuated when one of them rose to replenish drinks or food; although no-one was particularly hungry. They were still sitting there as the distant church chimed 10.00 pm; the sound almost drowned by the loud evening song of cicadas drifting through the open windows from the meadow adjacent to the boundary wall.

Porthos was yawning now, his journey to and from London catching up with him.

Suddenly, the sat phone lit up.

Athos had removed the signature tune and set it to loud vibrate. The phone was now lit up and buzzing; moving stutteringly across the table in a compelling dance in front of them. He found himself momentarily frozen; staring at it.

They all looked at each other.

Constance were in the sitting room with Aramis , but catching sight of them through the open doors, sitting staring at the table, they hurried through to the kitchen. Athos waved them urgently over. Steeling himself, he lifted the phone, switched it to speakerphone, and opened the connection; not answering, listening first;

_Breathing ..._

_Quiet, even breathing ..._

Athos took a chance and just said his previous Captain’s eight digit ID service number, now defunct.

If it was d’Artagnan, he would recognise it for what it was.

After an agonising few moments ... a voice.

A familiar voice.

“Athos? ...”

“Yes.”

Athos held his breath.

There was a rustling, as d’Artagnan seemed to be getting into position.

“Did Clarisse contact you?”

“Yes ...” Athos answered, keeping his responses short, breathing now.

“I don’t understand,” came the stilted reply.

“You must have activated the sat phone.”

“She kept it?”

“She did.”

“Why am I surprised?” d’Artagnan said, a weary smile in his voice.

“She nearly died when it rang,” Athos said, to break the tension. He caught her eye and she sneered at him.

d’Artagnan laughed softly.

Athos closed his eyes, it was a good sound.

“She heard a scream,” Athos continued, his eyes still closed – “she came to La Fere to tell us she thought it was you.”

“It’s September.” d’Artagnan groaned suddenly, momentarily distracted.

“Yes, it is,” Athos replied, opening his eyes, and glancing at them all; heart aching that d’Artagnan had just remembered that they would all be there at La Fere. And that he should be with them.

“The scream?” he prompted, softly.

“Not me,” d’Artagnan said, and as those words came through loud and clear, the atmosphere in the kitchen eased.

They heard d’Artagnan pulling in a ragged breath, and the words came tumbling out low and fast.

“It was one of my men. There are ...were ...three of us. We were captured. We were heading for Turkey; but we were still outside the border when we were taken.”

“Where you hurt?”

“We were all knocked out. I was lucky; they left me for dead.”

That would explain his disorientation, thought Athos.

“I managed to get into one of their lorries, hid under a tarpaulin. The journey took about three hours, but I have no idea where I am.”

“What about GPS?” asked Athos, thinking about the satphone.

“Not working.”

“Are you underground?” Athos asked. That could account for it.

“I was. Not now.” 

There was a long pause.

“d’Artagnan,” Athos said quietly. “Are you alright?”

“So far,” came the weary reply. 

“Where are you now?”

“In a warehouse of some sort. I’m going to try and get out and head for the roof space of the building next door where there’s a chance the phone will work a bit better if I can get up onto the roof.”

“Alright, we have Albie working on it – can you maintain this connection?”

“Yes, for a little while.”

“Does anyone know where you are?” Athos asked.

“No. My mission is completely off-grid.”

“Once we know where you are, we’re coming.”

A long pause.

“I have to get my other man out,” d’Artagnan said.

Athos looked up and locked eyes with Porthos. He understood the burdens and responsibility of leadership. d’Artagnan had lost one man, and he would do all he could to rescue the remaining one.

“What are you doing there d’Artagnan?” Athos finally asked, rubbing his forehead, trying to understand.

“Finishing what we started last year.”

Athos closed his eyes and was quiet. Last year, d’Artagnan, as the lead Special Forces operative, was instrumental in mopping up Lord George Villiers Turkish contacts, who ran his drug and arms dealing network; and overseeing the man’s arrest at the home he shared with Clarisse in Kensington. He had never been happy that the network had not been shut down completely. There was a powerful local family running the operation and it now seemed, if d’Artagnan’s information was correct, that they had survived the initial disruption and were still active in their nefarious business.

Athos suspected that d’Artagnan had ruffled a few feathers in the region last year and it was more than possible that he and his men had been betrayed.

“How good is Albie?” d’Artagnan sounded tired; distant.

Athos did not know how long he had been on this mission. It was a new experience for Athos to hear him sound like that.

“He’s the best,” he replied, firmly.

“Athos....”

“I’m here.”

“It’s good to hear your voice.”

“Likewise, brother,” Athos replied gently.

d’Artagnan suddenly cut contact.

At least, Athos hoped that’s what had happened.

The mood in the kitchen was sombre.

**oOo**

It was almost another ten hours before Albie he made contact; longer than he had hoped, but he finally found information that pointed to a coastal part of Turkey. Whoever had captured d’Artagnan and his men had crossed the border into Turkey; d’Artagnan’s original destination. Albie was zeroing in. He had linked up with Porthos and the others briefly on their laptop webcam, and it looked like he hadn’t slept in the last twenty four hours. Porthos said nothing, knowing that Albie would not understand why he thought he should sleep when he had work to do. He had blinded them all with science for a few moments and shown them his screen, scrolling down the downloaded material. He seemed pretty excited, and so they let him go, he had given them _something_ to go on and was now zeroing in on the precise location.

Porthos had noticed the empty box of chocolate peanuts lying on its side next to Albie’s computer, but had said nothing. He hoped Albie had had a sandwich in the preceding twenty four hours.

Porthos had then got to work over breakfast, pulling up a map on the laptop. They pinpointed the general area within a twenty mile radius of the location Albie had indicated. They switched to satellite mode and could see the long stretch of coastline, and the contours of hills, amid several small towns and the substantial commercial airport in Dalaman that appeared to serve the area. Along the coastline were several well known resorts. Further east along the seven kilometre stretch of coastline they identified the village of Sarigerme, which looked much more traditional and less commercialised.

Further research confirmed that, although the area was a popular destination for tourists, Sarigerme had yet to be discovered by the majority. There were still some remote locations, and this village would be an ideal place to base themselves, locate d’Artagnan and get him out; hopefully with the evidence he needed and hopefully, intact.

Simple. 

As Constance and Clarisse were already with them at La Fere, it was agreed that they would accompany them to Turkey; their presence would help them all merge in with small number of tourists in the surrounding area. Needless to say, they had both insisted, and would not be deterred, so Athos had to capitulate in the face of their aruguments.

Other than forming the plan, it would be a waiting game. They could not contact d’Artagnan as they did not know his circumstances and did not want to risk putting him in danger. He was obviously in a very precarious position. 

At the moment, their plan was academic; there was not much they could do, but they felt better mapping out the possibilities. When the time was right, they would take up residence in the general location and wait for d’Artagnan to make contact.

Flights from Paris to Dalaman Airport in Turkey were fairly regular, so they made ready at least for a speedy departure, when the time came. In the interim, they would remain at La Fere.

It was frustrating but they could do nothing until they heard from their young friend.

 _If_ they heard from him.

**To be continued ...**


	4. Chapter 4

**d’Artagnan’s second call; Tuesday 3.00 pm**

When d’Artagnan’s next call came, it was brief. 

****

“Where are you?”Athos asked.

****

“In the warehouse next door,” d’Artagnan said, his voice sounding shaky.

****

“Are you alright?”

****

“Just a concussion, I think.”

****

Damn.

****

“This mission, d’Artagnan; are you AWOL?” Athos asked, tentatively. The nature of d’Artagnan’s mission had been bothering him. He knew Porthos felt the same way.

****

“No! I’m on leave.” Pause. ”I need your help, Athos.”

****

“What can I do?” Athos said straight away.

****

“Speak to Edward Millington.”

****

“My old CO?”

****

“He’s Head of Intelligence now. My boss. I need you to tell him I won’t be back from leave.”

****

“d’Artagnan.....”

****

“The thing is, Athos .....Villiers is still active.”

****

**oOo**

****

**Edward Millington**

****

As d’Artagnan had requested, Athos put in a call to his former Commanding Officer Edward Millington at the Ministry of Defence, in Whitehall. He was not sure if his call would even be taken; it had been over eight years now since he had left the Army. He had only been drawn into this because d’Artagnan’s had accidentally activated the number he had allocated Clarisse, when he had been her control over the Villier’s affair.

****

However, he had had a good working relationship with Millington, who had shown him a duty of care when he was badly injured and retired from the service. They had not met since. It had been a surprise to hear from d’Artagnan that he was Head of Intelligence, but Millington had always been an ambitious man.

****

Athos drummed his fingers impatiently on the table in the sitting room in La Fere as he waited to be put through.

****

There was a click on the line, and then a familiar cut glass voice;

****

“Captain de la Fere.”

****

“Please... just Athos.”

****

“Very well, Athos, then it is Edward; there is no rank between us.”

****

Millington had the courtesy to ask after his health, and then Athos briefly and concisely explained what had happened and that he had been asked to contact him on d’Artagnan’s behalf.

****

Millington listened carefully and then agreed to support d’Artagnan as, if he succeeded, he would bring down the Turkish network; a particular “thorn in his side,” he had said. That must be the understatement of the year, Athos thought to himself.

****

Athos then told him about d’Artagnan’s suspicions about Villiers.

****

“You know Villiers has an Appeal pending?” Millington replied, after a moment’s pause.

****

“On what grounds?!” Athos asked, incredulously.

****

“That he was coerced. The Authorities, meaning us, set him up.”

****

“A “honey-trap,” Athos sighed.

****

“Yes, that we set up his marriage so his “wife” could get hold of his secrets and pass them on to us.”

****

He was hardly telling Athos something he was unaware of. What Millington said was true; he had been there. However, this was not good news.

****

“Will his Appeal succeed?”

****

“He has excellent lawyers, but hopefully not. If it does; he may get a lighter sentence.”

****

****

“And be moved?”

****

“Possibly.”

****

“To a softer prison, where he will continue to run his affairs,” Athos said.

****

“No doubt,” Millington agreed. “In the interim, we should allow the law to take its course, and not be seen to be targeting Villiers. His lawyer would make a meal of that.”

****

“And if evidence is forthcoming?” Athos asked.

****

“If sufficient evidence is forthcoming, that would be a different matter,” Millington said.

****

Athos hung up with a heavy heart.

****

So that was why d’Artagnan was so determined to get to Villiers’ contacts in Turkey.

****

He was uneasy though; Edward Millington had taken the information too calmly. And, considering it had been over ten years since Athos had spoken to him, the man had not seemed surprised to hear from him.

****

**oOo**

****

Meanwhile, in Turkey, d’Artagnan continued to play cat and mouse. Still unsure of his whereabouts, unarmed, and suffering the effects of concussion, he confined himself to the warehouse complex as he continued to watch his “captors” come and go.

****

There was still no sign of his remaining comrade.

****

During the previous night, he had found his way into the next building. It was empty, but there was adequate light from a full moon through broken windows to find his way to a tap in a washroom so he had access to water. It appeared this particular warehouse had probably been a canning factory at some point and he had foraged several discarded tins that had been left behind; taking them up to the roof space. The first one he had managed to open had contained sliced peaches. The others would be a mystery until he managed to open them when the time came.

****

He had perched high in the roof space of this warehouse, and had discovering through some loose brickwork that it ran along the full length of both buildings. He had slept fitfully curled in a corner of the roof, his back to the wall that had once separated the buildings. At daylight, he had heard activity, and, struggling still with a dull but persistent headache, he had made his way back into the first warehouse; crossing along the roof beams nimbly, despite his discomfort.

****

Sixty feet below him were three Turks, and his one remaining colleague; who was hanging limply by his wrists between them.

****

The thugs were busy, pulling the ropes that bound his wrists above his head.

****

Later, above them amid the beams, d’Artagnan bit into his hand to stop himself making a sound as the screaming below him gradually reached a crescendo.

****

**oOo**

****

**Wednesday 3.00 pm**

****

This time, d’Artagnan’s voice was strained

****

“They flayed him, Athos. They flayed him alive.”

****

Calling on all his training, Athos coaxed him to talk.

****

“I was in the roof space above them. I couldn’t do anything!” d’Artagnan was speaking quietly, his voice wavering. 

****

“Tell me,” Athos encouraged him.

****

After a few long moments, punctuated by hitched breathing, d’Artagnan rallied a little and went on to describe the man in charge of the torture as if he was giving a verbal report to his superior officer, not his friend. That was good, Athos thought, as his young friend’s training took over: _Bald, scar over the bridge of his nose extending to below his eye; muscular; six feet tall; about two hundred and twenty pounds, wearing a black tee shirt and desert fatigue combat trousers._

****

It was Bulut Yilmaz, he said; eldest son of Erogan Yilmaz - Villiers main operative in his Turkish network. According to Clarisse at the time, it was Erogan Yilmaz who had once dislocated Marcheaux’s shoulder and broken three of his fingers as a message to Villiers.

****

This was proof of their involvement and that the network and the family was still operative.

****

“Bulut is one mean, murdering son of a bitch,” d’Artagnan concluded, aware of this man from his investigations last year. “There are others here, but I haven’t identified them yet,” he added.

****

Athos let him talk, listening to the young man’s breathing; evening out now by the expression of his anger, followed by his returning professionalism as his training kicked in.

****

“d’Artagnan, we have heard from Albie now. We have your location. Your first call was made from South West Turkey. Have you moved since then?”

****

“No.” 

****

Athos thought he could hear d’Artagnan’s teeth chattering; he was still obviously in shock. Despite training and experience, witnessing something like that still had a crushing impact; especially when the victim was a comrade. It took time to process and allow the body’s automatic responses to dissipate. 

****

Athos wanted to reach down into the phone to comfort him. What he did say was simple and to the point.

****

“d’Artagnan, you’re not alone. Get your bearings now.”

****

“I need to watch them. I can’t leave here. I need to identify them.”

****

Athos waited, letting him finish.

****

“I know.”

****

d’Artagnan sighed, a little more contented sound, but a world-weary sigh for a young man still in his twenties, Athos thought.

****

“I spoke to Edward Millington, as you asked. He will support you, but only with results.”

****

“He’ll have them.”

****

“Obviously I cannot call you,” Athos continued. “Do what you must, but call me at the same time each day, if you can. What time is best for you?”

****

d’Artagnan thought; “This time; 3.00 pm”

****

“Alright, 3.00 pm it is. 

****

“Athos ...thank you.”

****

But Athos thought he sounded at the end of his tether; the horror of what he had witnessed weighing heavy. When it came down to it, d’Artagnan was technically a free man, but Athos hoped he would now proceed with caution and would remain so; something that was not always in d’Artagnan’s control.

****

His next call could not come soon enough.

****

**oOo**

****

**Thursday 3.00 pm**

****

“I’ve identified them now. They’ve all been here.”

****

A stronger, more determined voice. But Athos was still extremely concerned.

****

“d’Artagnan, be careful. This is getting very dangerous.”

****

“I need this Athos. They have to be shut down.”

****

Athos sighed, knowing how much this meant personally to his young friend; even more so now.

****

“We have your location, and we have enough to go on. We are coming, d’Artagnan. We will work together now.”

****

“Just, in the meantime - stay safe,”Athos added.

****

“I’ll do my best,” d’Artagnan replied.

****

That would have to do.

****

The line went dead and Athos put the phone down.

****

d’Artagnan was alone now, and his personal accounts against these men were mounting up.

****

He looked at his concerned brothers, hovering nearby.

****

He looked at Constance.

****

“Get your passports,” he said quietly;

****

“Time to get involved now.”

****

**To be continued ...**

****


	5. Chapter 5

**The Villa Gul in Sarigerme, South West Turkey**

They rented the Villa Gul, which stood on the outskirts of Sarigerme, twenty five minutes from the Airport. It was a five hour flight from Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris to Dalaman Airport, and then the rest of the journey was undertaken in two rented SUVs, split between the five of them.

Clarisse had booked herself into a hotel north of Dalaman airport. There was some tension between Constance and herself, and she enjoyed her own company too much to share with four other people. They had gone with her to check in, and then she had accompanied them to the villa. She would have the use of one of the vehicles, so that she could come and go as she pleased.

The Villa itself was a large four bedroom house. It had three double bedrooms and one twin. There was a small garden at the rear, with mature trees, offering shade from the hot Turkish sun.

The word, “gul” was Turkish for rose, a flower that had particular significance in Turkish culture. The garden certainly had a wide array of them, in a variety of delicate colours. In each bedroom, there were bowls of water with floating rose petals to welcome them, but otherwise they were left alone; the agents who managed the property were well used to corporate lets and the respecting of privacy.

It _was_ a very private house, thankfully air conditioned, and only ten minutes walk from the small town. The double bedroom downstairs was en-suite with double shower unit. Upstairs, there were a further two double bedrooms, also en-suite and the twin with its own bathroom. The facilities were more than adequate and it was spacious enough should Clarisse choose to grace them with her presence overnight.

As they had thought when researching the area, Sarigerme was not over-commercialised and they would fit in with the small number of tourists that it did attract. It suited the needs of a group of people wishing to lay low whilst seeking answers to awkward questions. Close enough for investigation of the Yilmaz network, but far enough away not to draw attention to themselves, amid the tourists.

Aramis had looked at Constance after they had settled in and were gathered in the large kitchen, studying a map of the local area.

“This could be dangerous,” he said, putting his hand gently on her shoulder.

She huffed.

“I didn’t come all this way to sit under a lemon tree!” she said defiantly.

“And anyway, it wouldn’t be you lot without some danger,” she threw him a mock glare as she walked away.

But she didn’t feel quite as confident as she sounded, she knew.

Watching as Clarisse settled herself in the garden, Constance wondered why she had insisted on accompanying them. She had been secretly rather pleased she had booked herself a hotel room twenty miles away, and was keeping her distance. There was something about her that made her uncomfortable, and she doubted that she would ever trust her.

**oOo**

**The Turkish Network**

Erogan Yilmaz had been a drug dealer and money launderer for many decades. The business had grown in light of the Afghan war, when he had formed a partnership with an English Lord, George Villiers, in order to obtain access to the lucrative trade the disruption was bringing their way. It had been feared that the poppy fields would be destroyed by Allied Forces, but this had not happened, as it was the only source of income to many local farmers and all alternatives had been abandoned.

Erogan Yilmaz was fifty-seven years old. He had been a handsome man in his youth and he had acquired a beautiful wife, Marianna. They had lived in his village all their lives and raised two sons, Bulut and Doruk. He had a mop of white wiry hair and a thick mustache over a ruddy complexion. His wife had died three years ago, taken too soon; and he had settled into his ways. Although he had the look of a benevolent man, it was unwise to take him as such; as many had found out to their cost. 

Metin Yilmaz, fifty-two, was Erogan’s younger brother. He did not like George Villiers, but he had accepted that he was a necessary means to an end. Metin was tall, carrying himself with the arrogance of detachment. He had thick dark hair and angular features, fierce brown eyes, and a cruel mouth.

As boys, Erogan and Metin had grown up in relative poverty. Their village, located a short distance from the industrial town of Ortaca was slowly diminishing as the village men left to find work elsewhere. During the 1950’s and 60’s, the country itself had been blighted by a series of military coups and uncertainty over control of the island of Cyprus all added to the tensions. As young men, Erogan and Metin struggled to feed their families and it was for these reasons that they had fallen into the drug trade and eventually into partnership with George Villiers, who saw an opportunity to gain access to the illlegal commodities and their supply routes through Asia into Europe. Turkey, straddling both continents, was the ideal base for his operations. Offering the stability of a regular income, the brothers took advantage.

George Villiers had initially been a good paymaster, but he expected much; arms dealing being one of his additional ventures. Once they were committed, the brothers found they could not give up their regular income and gradually, they became hardened to the brutality that became routine in the control of their new network. Soon, they themselves became brutal and mercenary as they ruled the operation with a rod of iron, taking more and more control of the region, recruiting equally brutal men and paying off the local police.

They were feared, and for good reason.

**oOo**

**George Villiers**

Lord George Villiers had been the head of a global pharmaceutical conglomerate. The rest of his dealings had been hidden beneath a myriad of false corporations; the funds laundered and sunk into offshore bank accounts. This subterfuge hid the fact that he was a drug baron and arms dealer, working with, and controlling some of the world’s most dangerous criminals. The fact that he had finally been brought down in a sting by the Ministry of Defence and the woman who he thought was his wife was something he had had great difficulty in accepting.

His money was well hidden; by design his dealings too complex to unravel, so he had no worry on that score. But Villiers was an arrogant man and he had had time to fester.

Prison had afforded George Villiers time to think.

The more he thought about it, the more angry and embittered he became. He had been taken for a fool by Clarisse, his so-called “wife,” and by Jorges Marcheaux, who he had trusted as his right hand man. Even Leon, his bodyguard, had betrayed him. At least Marcheaux and Leon were both now dead. 

But that left three particularly irritating loose ends.

Clarisse, de la Fere and Du Vallon.

And he hated loose ends.

His lawyer thought he had a good case for a retrial and a possible reduced sentence.

He had recently heard from Erogan Yilmaz in Turkey that three Europeans had entered the region on a seemingly covert operation. Two had been captured, but the third had escaped and was still at large. Yilmaz wanted to know if Villiers had sent them.

The two prisoners had been tortured and one of them had finally given them the Yilmaz name as he lost his skin before he eventually died; but nothing more. The descriptions Yilmaz gave Villiers of these men did not fit de la Fere or Du Vallon.

Villiers assured Yilmaz the three were nothing to do with him; they were obviously Special Forces. Something else was going on. He gave Yilmaz descriptions of his three loose ends. Yilmaz was not happy but had said he had men keeping watch in the area to see if the absconder or any other Europeans turned up. He assured George Villiers that he would be informed if any such persons were detected.

In fact, Erogan Yilmaz had eyes and ears everywhere. 

People owed him. He made sure of it.

**oOo**

Metin Yilmaz, though, wanted to be free of George Villiers’ control.

He wanted to run the network himself with his two nephews, Erogan’s sons, Doruk and Bulut; both well-schooled in the brutality needed to ensure the network survived and all potential usurpers to their empire were neutralised quickly.

Erogan had no idea that Metin felt like this. Metin’s impatience was a festering sore, but as the older brother, Erogan always expected his brother to accept his rule. For many years, he had. However, Metin’s mental detachment had grown over the years as he became more cruel, reacting with little emotion to the retribution he brought to those both in his command and those who challenged him.

The last straw for Metin had been Jorges Marcheaux’s attitude when he had paid his annual “review” visit the previous year, on behalf of George Villiers. The man was arrogant and disrespectful and Metin had seen and approved of how Erogan had finally snapped and broken three of Marcheaux’s fingers, sending him back to Villiers with a warning about his expectations. Even then though, Erogan went on as before, and Metin’s patience was now exhausted.

He understood Marcheaux was now dead and Villiers was in prison, but that had not stopped Villiers still reaching out to them with his orders and expectations.

Metin would send the Englishman a message. He planned to soon “de-activate” Villiers’ main man. Villiers would then have no option but to deal with him alone and would soon find that things would change.

Such was his psychopathic detachment, Metin gave no thought or concern to the fact that the man he was going to “de-activate” was his brother. 

**oOo**

**Villa Gul**

Once settled in, Aramis, Constance and Porthos took a walk into the town to get their bearings and buy provisions. Laptops and phones were all left on charge, and a map of the region was spread out on the table in the lounge. Athos had opened up the French doors and wandered into the garden, lost in thought. A sudden movement caught his eye, and he saw that Clarisse was seated on a low wall, in the shade of a leafy tree; equally lost in thought, it seemed.

“This is not your first visit to Turkey,” he said quietly, sitting next to her but looking straight ahead across the garden. It was not a question.

At first, he thought she was not going to answer, but then she turned her head slightly to look sideways at him.

“How did you know?” she asked, shooting him a look he could not decipher.

“You seemed familiar with the airport,” he replied; looking at her now.

She sighed, pushing her hair off her face, and pressing her lips together while she thought; that familiar gesture he had difficulty taking his eyes from.

“And with your hotel,” he added.

She kicked at the gravel beneath her feet.

She told him then that she had some familiarity with Turkey, having accompanied Marcheaux on one of his trips for Villiers; but, as now, had booked into that hotel, often leaving Marcheaux to conduct his business alone. In the end, it had been a pleasant trip, but for other reasons.

He did not ask why such a trip had been pleasant in the end, knowing the nature of the business Marcheaux was no doubt conducting. His silence appeared to create a chasm that she seemed, albeit reluctantly, willing to fill.

“I met someone; we had a ....nice time.”

Again, he found himself watching her mouth.

“And then, it was over, and we came home,” she added quickly.

“We?” he asked, gently, looking into her eyes then.

“Marcheaux and I. His business was concluded.”

She stiffened then, aware she had let her guard down. She lifted her head, and he saw that that particular door had now slammed shut. She looked at him then, in challenge. But none came.

Athos had detected regret in her voice and demeanour, as she continued to kick at the gravel under her feet. Someone, it seemed, had touched her heart for that brief moment. Whether it had returned to a former fortress or that particular door had slammed after she came home, he could not tell. And he would never ask.

**To be continued ...**


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The best laid plans of mice and men ..." John Steinbeck 1937

**Sunday morning**

Leaving Aramis, Constance and Clarisse at the villa to make their own discreet enquiries around Savigerme, Porthos and Athos set out on their own surveillance mission.

They had ventured into a village known to be frequented by Erogan Yilmaz, according to d’Artagnan’s previous research. Built in the foothills of a range of hills near the industrial working class town of Ortaca, the village had seen better days, but there were some comfortable looking houses in the hills above them.

It was just after noon, and extremely hot. Lunch was a couple of, for want of a better word, sandwiches, bought in a previous bar. Porthos was hot, and getting increasingly impatient. This whole business was not sitting well with him. Athos knew best to leave him be.

Across the road, a dog was sniffing around a discarded crate that had been left next to a building.

“I always wanted a dog,” Porthos mused, brightening a little; watching the skinny mutt in its endeavours and admiring its tenacity.

“They’re over-rated,” Athos replied.

But he did throw the animal the last of his sandwich when Porthos was not looking.

They approached the fourth bar of the day, looking for information about the people who had control of this region. It was an observation exercise only, to get the lay of the land. They were not going to jeopardise their safety, or that of d’Artagnan, by openly asking questions at this point.

Several bars had been visited during the morning; this would their last one, before Aramis and Constance ventured out again this evening, playing tourists. Athos would not presume to direct Clarisse; she was her own woman and seemed content to hang around at the Villa.

**The Blue Oasis Bar**

The sign above the open double doors said, “The Blue Oasis,” and it looked welcoming enough. At least it was cooler inside, two large ceiling fans working overtime to stir the heavy air. The interior was a mix of bare brick, glass and wood; the mismatched furniture and standing lamps giving it an old-fashioned style. There were four men sitting at the bar and around a dozen people sitting at tables; a mix of tourist and local couples eating and local men playing backgammon; the sound of rolling dice complementing the soft traditional taped music and the murmur of voices.

Athos took a table in the corner by the window, taking in the view of the distant hills while Porthos ordered two beers. The smell of coffee and freshly cooked food hung in the air. The meals being served looked good and it did not take long before Porthos was ordering meze; a selection of small local dishes. Their previous “sandwich” forgotten, soon there was a range of salads, rice-stuffed vine leaves, cheeses, stuffed vegetables and calamari in front of them. They ate while discretely watching the patrons.

They had had some interest from the locals, and chatted for a while with them across the room about everyday things; being careful not to appear inquisitive about anything other than normal tourist interests. Apart from getting the distinct impression the locals were generally cautious about talking about their village, they learned nothing.

Finishing up, and just as they were about to leave, a small bespectacled man approached them cautiously. They had first noticed him sitting at the end of the bar stirring his thick Turkish coffee with a cinnamon stick whilst surreptitiously watching them. It had taken him a long time before he came over, but they had waited patiently. 

Athos looked across at the bartender, who had his back to them. No-one seemed to be paying any attention to them, and so he pushed out a chair with his foot and silently invited the man to sit with them. Porthos went to the bar for another round of beers.

The man’s name was Polat Hamdi, he said, and he had been born in the village. His father had even been the mayor at one time. At first, they thought he was just interested in chatting, but, with the benefit of alcohol, he soon got to the point; talking about the man who, he said, had taken control of the whole region in the last fifteen years. This man and his brother were involved in drug dealing and money laundering and his two sons were poised to take over the business, so there would be no end to it. Apparently one of the sons frequented this bar. Some even said he owned it.

Polat Hamdi continued to talk, low and fast. He said he was an accountant by trade. Some years ago, this man had tried to coerce him into his employment and for a short time, he had out done some work for him, before realising what it was he was doing, and had managed to get out. Instead he had started to watch him and his two sons. He hated to see what was happening to the area; adding that his father would be appalled. The police, he added, were not interested and kept their distance. He had not named names, but it was obvious to Athos and Porthos just who Hamdi was talking about. However, apart from personal disgruntlement at the corruption of his village, he had only confirmed what they already knew, albeit from a different perspective. 

However, it was what he said next that they could not ignore.

Athos and Porthos did not know how he had singled them out to talk but they stiffened when he mentioned two Europeans who had recently been brought through the village in a convoy of trucks. They had disappeared, but he was of the opinion that they were not there of their own free will. He found this escalation deeply worrying, he said. Now, seeing two more European men whose bearing had the look of service or military men, he had plucked up the courage to approach them. Neither Athos or Porthos confirmed his assumptions, but realising they were on dangerous ground and had all talked long enough, they arranged to meet him the next day in one of the bars they had visited earlier in the day; away from this place.

“What do you think?” Porthos asked as they walked slowly back to their car.

“I’m not sure; we gave him no encouragement, but he seemed eager to speak to us. Perhaps too eager. Why did he not think we were merely tourists passing through?”

“Well, it’s the first lead we’ve ‘ad. If it was d’Artagnan’s two men he saw, bearing in mind d’Artagnan was hidden away at the back of one of those trucks; this Polat fella may know of some places they might ‘ave taken them.”

“Hmmm, maybe. But why do I have the feeling we’re being set up?” Athos muttered as they walked back to their car.

Porthos shrugged and slapped Athos on the back, as they both climbed back into their car and u-turned, back in the direction of Sarigerme.

They had only gone a few miles, when Athos’s fears were confirmed. Porthos shifted forward carefully and adjusted the rear view mirror.

“We got company Athos,” he grunted, his eyes on the black car keeping pace behind.

“It would seem so,” Athos replied, as his eyes flicked from the road to the mirror. He had seen the car drop in behind them not long after they had pulled out of the village.

“Wanna outrun ‘em?” Porthos said, tapping the dashboard in anticipation; it seemed he felt they had the superior car, in the SUV.

“Then we would learn nothing; and where is the fun in that?” Athos murmured; his comment eliciting a low rumbling laugh from his friend.

Ten minutes later, on an empty stretch of road, Athos slowed the car to a stop and allowed the overtake; watching as the car behind pulled up in front of them in a spray of dust and grit. Athos quickly retrieved the satphone and shoved it at Porthos. Surprised, Porthos automatically took it and pushed it into the inside pocket of his jacket. 

In front of them, two, obviously local, men got out and stood impassively, staring. Both had gun holsters strapped around their shoulders; in broad daylight, Athos thought to himself.

Athos and Porthos stared back, before Athos sighed, and they both got out of the car, into the bright sunlight.

Athos calmly tossed his sunglasses back into the SUV through the open driver’s window. He wanted a good look at these men.

“Move away from the vehicle,” one of the men said, in English, walking forward and coming to a stop close to Porthos.

“We don’t want any trouble,” Athos said quietly. He and Porthos both held their arms out away from their sides, showing they were unarmed.

“Too late, trouble has found you,” said one of the Turks, pulling out a Glock semi-automatic pistol.

“Your grasp of English is admirable; as is your ability to deduce our nationality,” Athos murmured.

Porthos grunted in amusement next to him, shifting his weight; watching.

“You’ve been asking questions,” the other man said, ignoring him but pulling out his own gun.

“That is not technically true,” Athos replied in a voice that now smacked of boredom.

One of the men was bald-headed, with a physique similar to Porthos. He stepped closer and waved his weapon in a forward motion toward their car. Athos saw the long horizontal scar that ran across his nose and cheek, and suddenly realised who this very dangerous individual was; and equally, what he was capable of.

Athos felt Porthos tense next to him, as realisation dawned on him too.

“Porthos, no,” he whispered.

Athos stepped toward them, taking their attention; but Porthos was fast and he swung his fist at the man nearest to him, connecting with his jaw.

“You ain’t my Captain anymore, brother,” he growled, as he prepared to fight.

But they were unarmed, and Athos was well used to assessing the potential odds of such an encounter, so he shoved Porthos away. Once clear, Athos was seized by one of the men.

Porthos’s attention swung back to Athos, who was not fighting back. As he registered that, the man he had hit recovered and smashed his gun into Porthos’s head. Porthos sank heavily to his knees, one hand protectively grabbing at Athos’s trouser leg, fingers hooked in the material. As he shook his head angrily, he was clubbed again; finally letting go.

As Athos was dragged at gunpoint toward the men’s car, he twisted around in their grasp to shout at Porthos; desperate to know if he was alright.

As the car drove away at high speed, Porthos could only watch blearily as he was left alone, to collapse and lose consciousness on the empty, dusty road. In the back of the car, Athos was no match for the pistol jammed under his jaw, which forced his head back. Or the needle suddenly and unexpectedly stabbed unceremoniously into his thigh. He jerked violently in reaction before he felt his head roll back on the headrest.

His last coherent thought was not a positive one.

**To be continued ...**


	7. Chapter 7

Athos woke slowly.

Lying on his back, he listened to an uneven hum above him.

His lips were dry and he hissed when he felt them split as he opened his mouth. The resultant grimace made it worse.

His tongue was nowhere to be found; stuck to the roof of his mouth.

He flexed his fingers and felt metal bite into his wrist. His right arm was hoisted above his head, and was numb, the blood drained by the unnatural position.

Ah.

He was not sure where his other arm was.

Or the rest of his body.

He would have to wait to discover that.

He vaguely remembered the sharp shock of the needle, stabbed in his thigh.

Drugged.

He cracked open an eye, and saw a ceiling fan, moving sluggishly above him. Not doing its job apparently, as the air was heavy and warm. Next to him on his right, a bare plaster wall stretched above him; the yellowing plaster cracked in some places, missing altogether in others.

His head would not turn; too heavy.

Again, he would have to wait.

He closed his eyes.

Sometime later, someone was there, towering vaguely above him, shaking the manacle that held him. It was doing its job, it seemed.

His eyes would not open now.

He found his voice but did not recognise it.

“Am I to die here?”

“Perhaps.”

He sighed, and attempted to lick his dry lips.

It did not go well.

“Food I can take or leave, but water would be nice,” he murmured.

He heard the man move away and the sound of distant running water.

He drifted off, but then his hair was grabbed and his head yanked up, bringing him sharply back to awareness.

A rough cup was put to his lips and he felt tepid water run down his throat. And down his face; the man was unconcerned. No matter, it felt good.

His head was dropped roughly back down onto a flat, hard pillow.

A door slammed, two bolts shot back in place, and he was alone once more with the hum of the ineffective fan above him.

He briefly assessed his situation; flat on his back, one arm hoisted in the air, his back and shoulder aching from the unnatural position.

He decided it was time to leave, and he slowly went into self-hypnosis – drifting to his safe place; his room with the panoramic view of Mount Rushmore.

**oOo**

Porthos had never learned hypnosis. Athos had put him in trance a few times, mainly for pain control; once after he broke his elbow teaching rugby to the kids in the project. By the time the ambulance arrived, (a precaution as he had also cut his head), he was floating peacefully, his arm was numb, and he was praising an amused Athos wholeheartedly.

So he wished Athos was with him now with the pain he was feeling. But Athos had been taken; and he had watched helplessly, half-blinded by the blood flowing down his face. 

He had fought back. That had probably been his undoing. They would surely have taken both of them; and now Athos was alone. _Stupid, stupid._

Pulling himself up on the dusty road, he managed to pull open the driver’s door; his grip on the handle the only thing keeping him upright. He groaned as he reached in and picked up Athos’s sunglasses; the sight of them making his friend’s absence suddenly real. He clambered into their car, his head pounding and his stomach rolling as the heat of its interior hit him. The key was still in the ignition after their sudden assault, and he struggled briefly to adjust the seat from Athos’ driving position. Feeling the thick trail of blood blurring his eye, he swiped at it with his hand and turned the key, relieved to hear the engine fire into life. The wheels spun wildly as he yanked the steering wheel, baked hot from the sun, and began to drive back to the villa, hoping he would stay conscious long enough to get there.

He did not actually remember arriving; only painfully waking up in one of the bedrooms, with an unusually grim-looking Aramis stitching a four inch cut in his hairline. And then, nothing more.

**oOo**

Once Porthos was coherent, they went back to the last village they had been to, before they were taken. They went to the bar they had arranged to meet Polat in, but they were late by two days of course, while Porthos recovered. No-one had heard of Polat Hamdi. They went then to The Blue Oasis, but the barman was new. He had not heard of him either. 

When next d’Artagnan called, it was Porthos who answered.

“d’Artagnan, they’ve got Athos. We don’t know where he is.”

“But we know who’s got ‘im,” he added gravely.

He heard a crash at the other end of the line, as if something had been thrown against a wall and smashed.

Then d’Artagnan said four words;

“Don’t wait for me.”

The line went dead.

**oOo**

Athos opened his eyes to see, from the two very small windows in the top of the wall, that it was still daylight. Beyond that he did not know what day it was, or the time.

He was lying on his front this time, with his face buried in the flat, hard pillow. One arm, his right, was raised above his head still, but thankfully lower now; resting heavily on the pillow. His other arm was underneath his body, by his side; tight against the wall. As if he had been thrown down, he thought; which he probably had been - he could not remember.

Pulling his left arm up from under him, he sluggishly pushed himself up onto his knees. The room spun wildly and he almost fell forward back into the pillow. Becoming a little more stable, he looked down at his curled fists on the mattress, supporting him; still on his knees. On his right wrist there was a wide metal cuff, attached to which was a thick length of chain. His eyes followed the chain; not an inconsiderable length, up to a large ring buried in the wall. Taking hold of it with both hands, he pulled. It stayed firm. He was anchored very firmly to the wall.

Sitting back on his heels, his left hand on the wall, he pushed his right leg over the side of the iron bed and placed his foot on the floor. The movement made him feel nauseous and his head swam viciously; black spots seeping into his vision. Taking a deep breath he leaned forward again, supporting himself on both hands, the chain clanking against the iron bedstead. After a few moments of deep breathing he turned his head to the opposite wall and followed it along so he was looking behind him.

He was in some kind of basement. The only light came from the small square windows set high in the ceiling; obviously level with the ground outside, but all he could see was sparse weeds, which had grown in front of the grimy glass.

There was only one door and it looked solid. An old wooden table and one chair was set against the opposite wall; the floor was bare concrete that had not seen a broom in a while.

Next to the bed there was a bucket.

_Charming._

Looking down at his arms again, he saw the marks of a needle; he had obviously been injected with something, and more than once. Now, seeing that, he groaned. He had no idea of the time frame. He remembered he had been taken in the afternoon, on the road from a village bar, after speaking to that little man with Porthos.

_Porthos._

He suddenly remembered pressing the sat phone on him in the car so that he would be able to take d’Artagnan’s next call.

Then on the road; his attempt to still his angry friend - only to see him bludgeoned to the ground. Being shoved into the back of a car, which had taken off at high speed.

Leaving Porthos behind. 

He remembered nothing more.

He said a silent prayer, hoping Porthos was alive.

After what must have been minutes, but felt like hours, he managed to stand on his two feet, but swayed alarmingly. Walking was difficult. He noted, with not inconsiderable annoyance, that he was barefoot. Holding his arms parallel to his body, he figured the room was some twelve feet wide and maybe fifteen feet long; it had obviously not been used for some time, judging by the layer of dust on the table and the bed frame. 

Standing on a dirty floor on bare feet was not the most pleasant of experiences and so reluctantly, he sat back down on the bed, drawing his legs up; resting his forehead on his knees. He would have to await the arrival of whoever had him in their grip.

Feeling exhausted and nauseous from his brief exertions, he closed his eyes and considered the stages of incarceration:

Planning: looking for possibilities of escape.

Pacing: exercising to use up unwanted energy.

Resting and sleeping.

Boredom.

Ultimately; maintaining calm.

Not necessarily in that order.

But always coming back to - looking for possibilities of escape.

In a very brief time he determined that, given the substantial metalwork he was attached to; escape was probably unlikely, if not impossible.

**oOo**

d’Artagnan had watched as Bulut Yilmaz and his men dispersed, listened as their vehicle moved away; leaving his dead comrade hanging where they left him. 

He had climbed down and jumped carefully onto the floor, making certain he was alone now. Steeling himself, he had crept toward the mutilated body of the man he knew so well and silently wept as he cut him down. He desperately tried not to remember their last conversation, as they approached the Turkish border; but of course, that was impossible. They had been a tight crew; they had each other’s backs.

But not this time. 

Both his men were dead now but he did not know where his other comrade’s body had been discarded; as it surely must have been. He wanted to do right by this one, now laying at his feet.

He didn’t know how to carry him; where to hold. He was a soldier, but he wanted to scream with the inhumanity of it.

In the end, he settled for wrapping him in a tarpaulin he found slung over some crates, and then dragged his sad cargo out through double doors into a walled space, where he managed to dig a shallow grave with a discarded broad metal pipe.

They all knew that one day, they may rest in an unmarked grave in some forlorn corner of the globe, but it didn’t make it any easier. He did not feel as if he comrade was resting. 

He was not a religious man, but as he knelt beside the grave and placed his hand on the earth he whispered;

“Pass not unseen.”

And then, he melted away.

**To be continued ...**


	8. Chapter 8

**Villa Gul**

Aramis winced as Porthos punched the door for the third time that day, in frustration at their helplessness. He had been in full flow all morning, and the girls had moved away into the garden; not fearful of his aggression, but sad. Too exhausted to snipe at each other, an uneasy truce had descended upon them.

“Porthos, don’t. It’s not our villa; it isn’t fair.” 

Porthos deflated at that, as Aramis knew he would. Porthos always responded to fairness.

“When Athos and me were waitin’ for you; when the helicopter went down; we sat for hours. There was nothing we could do...” Porthos said.*

“I know, my friend,” Aramis replied, lifting his friend’s hand and inspecting his knuckles.

Porthos reached up to his forehead and ran his fingers across the stitches that Aramis had put there. 

“He didn’t fight back. Why didn’t he fight back?”

“Because the odds were against you, my friend,” Aramis replied.

“Where is he ....?” Porthos said quietly, the fight gone from him, as Aramis rubbed his shoulder.

d’Artagnan didn’t know where Athos was either. He had a plan, Porthos knew that, but if he knew where Athos was, he would have told them. He was not that far into his job to ignore their turmoil. Porthos was not happy with d’Artagnan, but, he did have a plan, Porthos knew. Porthos hoped.

**An unwanted development**

Athos attempted to surface once more. This was not, he realised, the awakening from normal sleep; he must have been drugged again. This time, he vaguely remembered being held down with the chain across his throat as the needle was plunged into his inner arm once more.

Opening his eyes, he was once more face down on the pillow.

Lifting his head, he heard a noise behind him and froze.

Before he could move, his hair was gripped and his head pulled sharply back; his spine bending painfully. He felt a fist in his tee shirt at the back of his neck, which pulled against his throat, making him gasp. The pressure increased until the material gave and his head fell forward again; only to feel a hand on his belt in the small of his back and another snaking around underneath him. 

Suddenly awake, with adrenaline flooding through his veins, he kicked back with his right heel, feeling it strike bone – a shin? It had little effect but the resultant angry growl made his blood freeze and he was suddenly yanked up and over like a rag doll; the walls and ceiling canting wildly around him. 

Slammed onto his back, he came face to face with his attacker; his intentions now obvious. The man was big, his long, black greasy hair hanging across his face as one massive hand suddenly landed on his chest with the intention of holding him firmly down.

Athos brought his knee up into the man’s groin and there was a groan. The man threw his head back, and Athos grimaced and reared back in shock as he saw that _the man had no tongue_

He was tiring rapidly and as the man moved his body over him and got his belt undone, Athos surged up, using the last of his strength, and brought his forehead smashing into the thug’s nose. The man, incredulously, bore the blow and took hold of the chain, wrapping it around his own hand, yanking a dazed Athos viciously closer. Athos attempted to pull his hand back.

At the sound of bones snapping in his wrist, Athos bit down a scream, his breath seizing in his chest.

Just at that moment, an educated voice from the doorway drifted into the room.

_“Savas.”_

It was a cultured voice and the man’s name was spoken quietly.

It had a remarkable effect on the man, who stilled instantly and released Athos, but none too carefully. He was obviously disappointed.

Athos fell back, grasping the metal cuff around his now misshapen wrist, which had cut into his flesh. Cradling his arm to his chest, blood seeped through his fingers as he tried desperately not to be sick; fighting to stay conscious.

“Don’t mind Savas,” came the calm voice again. “Even the whores don’t want anything to do with him. He takes his opportunities where he can.”

Savas was now straightening up, finally realising his nose was a bloody mess. Obviously his brain took a little while to let his body know, like a dinosaur, Athos thought crazily, through blurred vision.

Savas moved his cavernous mouth in what Athos assumed was an approximation of a grin and leant forward, running his large, dirty thumb slowly across Athos’s lips. Athos turned his head violently away to avoid the unwelcome touch and the hand slipped down to the torn neckline of his tee shirt; fingers running slowly along his exposed collarbone. His skin was dragged under the calloused fingers.

Athos pushed himself up the bed to avoid the touch, but the man turned and lumbered away, shaking his head, blood from his battered nose flying in his wake and splattering the wall. Athos breathed heavily, shocked at what had just happened, and how close he had come to unspeakable horror.

The voice spoke again, bringing his attention to the smartly dressed man still standing in the doorway, seemingly unconcerned by what he had witnessed.

“So, which one are you?” the cultured voice intoned, with only a hint of a Turkish lilt.

Not waiting for an answer, he continued.

“Not the right colour for Du Vallon, so I do hope you are de la Fere.”

When Athos frowned, his mouth open, the man smiled. 

“Thought so, you fit the description.”

“Who the hell are you?” Athos managed to gasp, pushing his hair back from his face, nearly causing himself further damage as the chain swung perilously close to his cheekbone. 

“I am Doruk Yilmaz.” The man answered, bowing; that brief action reminding Athos with a desolate pang of Aramis.

“I believe you are already acquainted with my brother, Bulut, he added, stepping aside to give Athos a view of the bald headed scarred thug standing behind him.

“Where is Porthos?” Athos hissed, pulling the chain forward into a more comfortable position on the metal cuff, the pain from the obvious break sending sickening, fiery spasms up his arm.

“Ah, of course, you were together,” Yilmas said, turning to look over his shoulder at his brother,” the last I heard he was face down in the dirt on a country road, yes?”

A cold smile spread across Bulut Yilmaz’s face in confirmation.

Athos closed his eyes and sank back onto the bed.

**oOo**

Meanwhile:

Porthos and Aramis had been back again to the villages they had visited on the morning of the attack; but the trail was definately dead.

Clarisse and Constance had sat in The Blue Oasis several times; but learned nothing.

Athos had disappeared from the face of the earth, and they had been totally unprepared for such a thing to happen.

Porthos could be excused his frustration. He was not a patient man.

But elsewhere, if his servie had taught d'Artagnan anything, it was patience.

And no small measure of his own type of brutality.

**oOo**

Doruk told him casually how dangerous his brother Bulut was and that it was he who had cut out Savas’s tongue on their Uncle’s orders. Savas had been obedient since, fearful of having something else removed.

Doruk said he hoped that Athos would be obedient, as they would be spending some time together. And then they were gone, and Athos was left alone to try and process what had just happened. Sometime later, the door swung open and he tensed, supporting his wrist carefully with his other hand, unsure if he was in a position to defend himself. Knowing that he wasn’t.

Thankfully, it was not Bulut or Savas but Doruk who appeared in the basement later to give Athos basic food, which he made himself eat. Doruk was polite; seeming to enjoy his role of jailer. It seemed this man wanted him alive; casually carrying a bottle of water and tossing it on the bed before he left, which Athos drank sparingly throughout the day. 

**oOo**

Athos was adjusting to his incarceration. Three days? Four? He was at the stage of resting and sleeping; mainly because he was in pain.

Once sure of his identity, Doruk had asked no more questions, nor did he answer any. This man knew both his and Porthos’s names and descriptions; it could only have come from Villiers; but his discussions with d’Artagnan had left Athos unsure of who was pulling the strings. No doubt that would become evident at some point. 

The next day, he was given an insight into Doruk’s cruel detachment.

Doruk had pointed a gun to his head and tossed him the key to the manacle and watched as Athos struggled to remove it from his broken wrist. He then pushed him into the “garden” at the rear of the house, where he was left under the hot sun, with a meagre plate of food he could barely swallow, before stumbling back inside with limited vision after the glare he had endured. Doruk had watched impassively as Athos then attempted the excruciating reattachment of the metal cuff. If it was a test of his obedience, he had passed; being barely conscious for most of his excursion.

Doruk did not repeat the enforced excursion outdoors, for which Athos was at least thankful. Initially engaged, his jailer now seemed to be growing bored. The drugging had stopped too. 

Athos had studied Doruk during these brief interludes.

It was surreal; Doruk Yilmaz had not acknowledged the obvious injury Savas had inflicted on him.

Athos had once told George Villiers the definition of a psychopath; 

_Someone who appeared to show a general poverty in major affective reactions and a lack of remorse or shame._

Villers had proved him right.

He had no doubt that Doruk Yilmaz would do the same.

**oOo**

The nights were surprisingly cold, the room not having the benefit of the sun to warm up during the day. The days were stifling. He was thankful that it was September, and not the middle of the summer. It was a small consolation. Going by the light coming and going through the small windows and the electric lights that sometimes came on via an erratic timer, he presumed this was his third day of captivity since they stopped drugging him; the only time frame he had.

He found himself running his fingers idly over the cracked wall and wondering what his new female therapist back in Harley Street would make of her boss traipsing around Turkey helping his Special Forces friend take down a drug dealing crime lord!

That made him laugh out loud.

Rather hysterically.

He rolled onto his back and stared at the old ceiling fan.

He did now know, that very soon, the fan would stop its sluggish rotation.

The lights would no longer come on. 

The old fridge in the kitchen would stop humming.

He would be abandoned, handcuffed to the wall, with no food.

And more importantly, no water.

**oOo**

Soon enough, something changed; Doruk stopped coming. 

Strangely, he had left a loaf of bread on the table. But the table was out of reach.

So he was no longer a bargaining chip, he thought.

He was simply, a loose end.

Whoever was in charge had made a decision. 

**To be continued ...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * "The Sound of My Voice." (Prequel)


	9. Chapter 9

_Three days._

That was how long the body could survive without water. 

He had been prepared to fight. He had started to work out a strategy involving a long length of chain. But that was before Savas. Even when he had been propelled into the garden, he had groggily scrutinised every corner. His eyes had strayed to the walls of the building, and the roof. The wall around the garden was not that high, but his wrist would be a major impediment. That was before they had stopped coming.

Athos now lay listlessly on the bed staring at his manacled wrist. The wide metal cuff was stuck to his skin with dried blood, caused by the metal edge digging into his swollen wrist at an angle. His fingers were stiff and numb. He had tried to hold it still, but was powerless to stop the pain, which even the slightest movement caused. Trance work took the edge off but his concentration was getting poor. It was worse when he woke from what little sleep he managed to get; initially forgetting until reminded in a brutal way that it was still, obviously, broken.

His eyes strayed up the chain to the ring embedded in the wall. For all his initial pulling and shouting, it had not budged an inch.

So this was it, he thought, as a wave of dizziness washed over him.

He had come near to death in Afghanistan; pinned down for nearly thirty six hours by insurgents; what little water they all had was eked out and then gone. When finally rescued, he knew there were easier ways to die.

At first the loaf of bread left on the table had taunted him. But it was out of reach, and he dismissed it. In his mind, he turned it into a rock. Not appetising however you looked at it. Water was more important.

He had just three days left without water. More without food, but without water, what does that matter?

He had lost track of the days he had spent here. But that didn’t matter now, as the clock was ticking. And he had to pay attention, now that his lifespan had shortened so dramatically.

He thought of Villiers, perhaps now reaching out for Clarisse; having snared him and Porthos. He thought about Porthos and wondered, hoped, he was alive. He had seen them club him to the ground before he himself was shoved into the car, but they had left him behind. Was that a good sign, he wondered? Could they just not be bothered with one of them injured? Apart from Savas, trying his luck, they had not intentionally hurt him; he had just kept him in a holding pattern. Until now.

Aramis and Constance would be at the house, waiting for them both to return.

d’Artagnan would be waiting to hear his voice .....

He had failed them.

He remembered that Clarisse told him that Marcheaux had only just escaped with his life after a visit here. 

Aramis and Porthos had been soldiers. They knew what they were getting into. Clarisse too, he supposed. She had done the right thing; she had sought them out to warn them about d’Artagnan.

Last year, Clarisse had led Special Forces to her door. She had entered into a false marriage with Villiers in order to get closer to him, after Thomas had run out on her. She had handed over his documents to d’Artagnan. But Villiers had never seen d’Artagnan. He had been upstairs tied up by Marcheaux when d’Artagnan had arrived that night last year, according to Porthos. Had he seen d’Artagnan? Even if he had, he was just one of a number of black clad soldiers that night.

This could only mean Villiers was settling scores now with those he knew. He knew _them._

Doruk would no doubt return at some point in order to verify his handiwork and report back to Villiers. It might have been easier if they had killed him straight away, but it seemed that Doruk had his own methods of inflicting maximum pain. He obviously specialised in deliberate emotional torture, as opposed to his brother, who went down a more visceral route.

It was all going round and round in his head, in a jumbled mess.

He was tired; no, _drained,_ he thought, as he swept his hand through his hair. When had it got that long? he contemplated, as it flopped back over his eyes.

At first, he had paced, the chain allowing him to do so. But yesterday he had sat down on the bed and never really got up again. By now, his blood pressure would have dropped and he doubted he would be able to stand for long.

His thoughts turned to food.

Always a carnivore, his favourite food was steak and wine and he had never forgotten, or loved them more than when Porthos and Aramis had turned up unannounced at his Chelsea apartment after he had been discharged from the Army. He was at his lowest ebb and they came bearing his favourite food. His cupboards had been empty and that day and into the evening, they had pulled him back from the edge.

He doubted that would happen now though, as he settled into a trance to enjoy the taste and smell of a sirloin steak and a good Bordeaux, which satisfied the small corner of his mind still receptive to self-hypnosis. 

It lessened the cravings, but not the pain in his empty stomach.

Sometimes, the body won over the mind.

**oOo**

Sometimes, the mind won over the body. 

A line by Dylan Thomas kept running through his mind:

_“Do not go gentle into that good night....”_

But, he thought, perhaps he _would_ go gentle. 

He had seen a lot during his tour of Afghanistan. He was tired of fighting and Savas’s attack had taken the last of his strength.

He could have a sad, lonely death; or he could have a quiet, calm one, lost in his own thoughts.

He wanted whoever found him to see him calm. He could not bear the thought of his brothers thinking he had been anguished and that that emotion would show on his still face. Nor would he give Doruk that satisfaction.

So he settled himself down.

Reaching out, he touched the cool, peeling wall, taking in the colours and patterns of broken plaster.

That was the beauty of self hypnosis, he thought to himself, and he breathed deeply.

It can take you to places you cannot physically go to.

How fortunate he was to have this skill.

**oOo**

Later:

Athos liked his boots.

As a soldier, he had always been proud of the deep shine he could embellish them with. Even in Afghanistan, with pale desert -issue boots that needed no polish, he still liked the feel of good, well made boots. 

So now, to find himself barefoot, he wondered what they had done with his boots. 

Serves him right for wearing them in Turkey, he thought.

Aramis wore expensive deck shoes. Porthos wore his favourite trainers.

But boots made him walk taller; stride with purpose. 

He was worried about his boots. 

Being barefoot made him feel vulnerable.

Chained to a wall in a basement in Turkey with a broken wrist, he thought to himself; but it was the effect of being barefoot that made him feel like this.

Good God. Was this the way his brain was going to deteriorate over the next couple of days?

What more irrational thoughts would he have?”

oOo

_Thirst, thirsty, thirsty ...thirsty ...thirst ... thirst ..._ his thoughts were becoming erratic. 

He needed his coping skills. Needed the bring order back to his mind. 

He thought of his life, reviewing and remembering; while he still could.

He knew he had yet to meet the woman he would spend his life with. But he allowed himself to think about the two women who had recently meant something to him.

Both very different women.

Clarisse was _fire,_ and Ninon was _ice_

He smiled at his recollections of these two strong women, both remarkable in their own ways. Both challenging.

_Fire and ice._

Later, his mind was wandering, and vaguely familiar song lyrics began to play through his head;

_When you try your best, but you don’t succeed_

_When you get what you want, but not what you need_

_When you feel so tired but you can’t sleep_

_Stuck in reverse ..._

Maybe he would start a mental Playlist and lose himself now in self hypnosis. Allow his unconscious mind to take over now.

He had quite an eclectic approach to music. He loved Puccini; often sitting in the dark in his Chelsea apartment listing to La Boheme as Rudolpho took Mimi’s tiny frozen hand; he loved to listen to Chopin and Liszt, and play some of their compositions on Thomas’s piano in his apartment. 

But sometimes, the unconscious mind, that great receptacle of all things musical, creative and emotional, just made up its own mind; pulling up melodies buried deep down that you had no option but to listen to until they played out.

He had all the time in his world here in this room, it seemed, so he let the song lyrics wash over him.

_And the tears come steaming down your face_

_When you lose something you can’t replace_

_When you love someone but it goes to waste_

_Could it be worse?_

_Lights will guide you home_

_And ignite your bones_

_And I will try to fix you._

He liked the thought of that; he could see how this song would strike a chord with people. Somehow it had embedded itself in his unconscious mind. He hadn’t realised that he knew all the lyrics. He remembered watching a concert on TV and seeing thousands of people swaying and singing along to this song; some lost in heartache; some caught up in its promise. He remembered being caught up in it too. Drinking too much wine, losing himself.

He closed his eyes and gently sang along; his voice low and husky ...dry ...cracking ...thirsty.

_And high up above or down below_

_When you’re too in love to let it go_

Should he really be thinking about this now? He was supposed to be thinking positively, but this was getting a little sad.

_But if you never try you’ll never know_

_Just what you’re worth ..._

Well, that’s true. How many times had he told his clients _that?_

And how long had it taken him to take that sentiment on board himself?!

The loop; earworm? continued ...

_Lights will guide you home_

_And ignite your bones_

_And I will try to fix you._

Shuddering to a stop and feeling his eyes start to sting.

_Tears stream ... down your face_

_When you lose something you cannot replace_

_Tears stream down your face_

_And I ......_

Tumbling now, the lyrics out of sequence ...

_Lights will guide you home ..._

_And ignite your bones ..._

_And I will try ... to fix ... ..._

_you._

Stop. Stop now.

He was going to die here.

**oOo**

He found himself thinking about his father, and the manner of death a soldier should embrace.

_... And you, my father, there on the sad height_

_Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray_

_Do not go gentle into that good night_

_Rage, rage against the dying of the light_

But he would not rage. He could not allow anguish, rage or pain to show on his still face when he was eventually found. He could not show his brothers that face.

_Sorry, father_

**oOo**

One hundred miles away, across country; d’Artagnan looked down impassively at the flames licked the sleeve of his jacket

In a compound in the foothills, ten miles from Ortaca, ten trucks and a Cessna 172 light aircraft were burning.

Five men were dead. Three of them tried to stop him and died quickly. The other two, their faces etched in his brain, had killed his two comrades. They did not die quickly. Not by any means. 

He dragged off his burning jacket and threw it away, leaving it smouldering on the ground.

Leaving the compound he didn’t flinch as behind him, the explosion lit up the night sky.

He was only just getting started.

**To be continued ...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Fix You" - Coldplay c Universal Music Publishing Group
> 
> "Do not go gentle into that good night" - Dylan Thomas 1914-1953


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nearly half way through now; does anyone have the key to this basement?

_Thirsty._

The morning had passed as he let his mind continue to drift. His hands were cold now. His heart sometimes racing, oddly irregular, which made him catch his breath. He was so tired, his movements sluggish; muscles on the verge of cramping. But his memories were still vivid and his unconscious was still accessing them, unbidden; so he drifted with them.

Next to play out was a poem he remembered by an Indian poet. Her name now escaped him, but some of her words did not. It was written for the poet’s four children, and he now recalled the verse for two of them. 

He remembered standing transfixed in an old bookshop reading it. It had fallen out from between the pages of another book, and as he bent to pick it up, he noticed the beautiful script that it was written in. Someone had treasured the poem and had copied it out and placed it for safekeeping in that book. Perhaps they had children themselves. Later, he had misplaced it. But it had stayed with him. He remembered the love that shone through both the poem and the hand that had copied it. And he had grieved that his own father did not have half the soul of the woman who wrote it and the person who had treasured it enough to write it out so beautifully.

Allowing his body to grow heavy, breathing slowly, deeply, he imagined himself diving into the warm Indian Ocean and letting the surf take him, before diving deep below the surface of the clear, green translucent water; light from the sun that shone on the surface filtering down to the depths; floating, slowly tumbling; supported by the currents, as he pulled the verse from his mind

For the son:

_Little lord of battle, hail_

_In your newly-tempered mail_

_Lord of battle, may you be_

_Lord of love and chivalry_

And for the daughter:

_Blithely and securely set_

_In love’s magic coronet_

_Living jewel, may you be_

_Laughter-bound and sorrow free_

And he wondered what it would be like to have a loving, chivalrous son and a living jewel of a daughter.

**oOo**

Tired, so tired.

He looked at his feet. It was not so bad to be barefoot when all was said and done, he thought.

**oOo**

_“Captain.”_

_“Second Lieutenant.”_

Images of crossing a minefield in Helmand Province to reach ... _Porthos;_

His wonderful, steadfast friend.

_“I’m coming for you, Brother ...”_

Athos lay on the bed, his free arm over his eyes.

He could almost hear the creak of the wooden chair across the room.

_“You don’t get to do this.”_

The familiar deep rumbling voice brought a lump to his throat.

He had heard that statement before, he smiled. Porthos would be angry with him. He was a fighter, by necessity. He would not understand Athos’s desperation for calm in the face of what would inevitably happen soon. He would want to see evidence of the fight Athos had put up. Porthos had made him fight before, in a hot hellhole they had no business to be in.

But Athos knew that Porthos’s tender heart would never recover if he were to see the grim sight that such a fight would lay across his features; and so he fought.

But he fought to be calm; to leave the legacy of a face in peaceful repose.

By the afternoon, in fitful sleep, he was lost in the nightmare of Musa Qala – feeling the door behind him in that Afghan village as the blast had slammed him into it; seeing _her_ – all fire and rage; from another time, from another place. Untouched by the devastation around; seeking him out. He knew now that she was _Milady._

All fire and rage.

And that Milady was, in some part, Clarisse.

Just as he felt the panic rising, another voice came to him and stayed with him for the rest of the day; calmly talking him down; helping him retrieve his coping skills. The familiar voice of the man he loved like a father.

A man with soul; 

Unlike his own father.

_Treville._

He opened his eyes then, and although nothing had changed, everything had.

He pulled himself up and breathed.

He could do this.

With their help, he could see this through to its conclusion.

And so he prepared for his final meeting.

**oOo**

Finally, then, to his safe place for his last meeting with his brothers, who would take his lonely death so hard.

Athos had, over the years, built himself a favourite place of relaxation in his mind, to which he would take himself in self hypnosis when he wanted to relax, or recharge his batteries.

It had floor to ceiling windows, and panoramic views. Which view would he pick for this? And around him in this place, were all the important things in his life, stored there for him to enjoy; the paintings he loved, the music, the furniture. The sword; though not put there by him but always there on the wall; perhaps a legacy from his past generations of military ancestors. Perhaps a gift through time and genes from a French Musketeer whose name he bore. Whatever; he was at his most comfortable in this room; always at peace.

Now, he stood before those windows, looking out at perfect French countryside.

The scene was familiar, unbidden;

The garden at La Fere, where they had shared so many happy memories; the walls, pergoda and courtyard garden so familiar to him.

As he stood looking out onto the scene, behind him he heard the creak of the leather sofa and felt the familiar presence of his three brothers; Porthos, Aramis and d’Artagnan.

They would not speak, because he did not presume to know how they would react to what he had to tell them.

What _would_ he tell them?

He would say they meant the whole world to him.

That he did not know what he would have done if he had lost one of them.

He would thank them for all the love and support they had given him.

He would thank each one of them for expanding the horizons of his heart; because, left to himself, he would never have been able to do that.

And how would they respond?

He did not know.

But he heard them stand, and they moved towards him as one and embraced him; because, that is what he knew they would do if they were here with him now.

And they would whisper, “Au revoir, Mon frère,”

Because goodbyes are too hard, and they will always be brothers.

And if he had been scorched by fire and burned by ice, and occasionally scalded by a fiery, sweet redhead called Constance, who once told him there was more room in a broken heart; then that was alright too.

**oOo**

Later:

Biting back hunger pains, his mouth dry, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.

Everything hurt; his head, wrist, stomach, back.

Then, his resolve breaking as he felt delirium approaching, and he wanted to laugh then; biting his bottom lip hard to stop himself.

Pain.

That was good.

He was a soldier now, for this final part of his slow march to death.

He was prepared.

He had used his skills to arrive calmly at this point.

Now, as he focussed on his wrist, swollen beneath the manacle, the space between flesh and metal grown smaller as he had watched; he acknowledged the dizziness, the nausea and the hunger pains at last, letting them roll over him.

His head hurt, splitting; as if it were in a vice.

Using the last of his strength, he curled onto his side to face the peeling wall. He pulled his knees up, cradling his painfully swollen wrist against his chest.

He silently apologised to everyone he believed he had wronged; feeling the great weight of sadness as he sent his brothers a silent wish:

That they would find him, as he wished to be found; for he knew they could not bear it otherwise.

That they would take him home, to La Fere. 

And he settled down to gently slip away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "To My Children" - Sarojini Naidu:
> 
> Written for her four children, but I have only quoted two; for her daughter, Lilamani and for her son, Ranadheera, which I have truncated.


	11. Chapter 11

Darkness.

He was alone in the dark, and yet, something had changed.

He felt the air _crackling_ around him.

Blood pounded in his ears with every heartbeat.

What was this?

Laying in the dark, still curled toward the wall, he watched as she strode angrily around the room. There was no sound to her strident steps, but he felt the swish of her skirts as they caught him, and he caught the floral fragrance trailing behind her.

He had his back to her. How was it possible that he could see her?

He heard his name, called through the mists of time.

Was she a hallucination?

Was he dreaming?

_Milady!_

Was it he who she was calling for, or her French Musketeer soldier? 

He remembered the conversation he had had with her in trance, as he had become Athos, the Musketeer.

_“I am bound to you – as you are to me.”_

Now, he felt a hand on his shoulder, and managed to get dry eyelids open.

Turning his head, he saw her.

_All fire and rage._

Thick, black hair flying around her face; blazing angry green eyes.

She had never spoken to him whenever she appeared to him; just held his attention. He had not heard her voice. But now it was as if that voice rang through his mind; unfamiliar, and yet familiar in equal measure. 

_“Athos!”_

Her voice was angry, so angry; and so _compelling._

Had she come to drag him down to Hell?

Or for some other purpose?

He pushed off the wall and rolled slowly onto his back to fully look at her.

She did not disappear, like the times before when he had seen her.

He thought he could feel her breath on his cheek as she leaned closer.

He stared at her, transfixed - and then he felt words flood his brain, like electricity ...

_Do not go gentle; Rage, rage against the dying of the light ...!_

**oOo**

It was daylight now, and the air was still once more.

He watched through half shuttered eyes, detached, as she pulled out a phone and started stabbing her finger furiously on the keys.

That was not right; there were no phones in seventeenth century France, he thought, as he watched her fade.

But it was not she who was fading.

It was him.

**oOo**

In the Villa Gul, amid desperation, a phone buzzed.

They all moved as one, converging, as it vibrated in its siren call; before he dived for it with shaking hands.

“Aramis!” she hissed, when he answered; her voice urgent; 

_“I’ve found him.”_

Aramis was instantly alert, his eyes suddenly stinging. He swung around and stared wild-eyed at the others, who were now looking toward him; a tableau of still statues, waiting to come to life at his command.

“He’s alive?” he whispered, as the air suddenly left the room; leaving a vacuum devoid of all but hope.

“I think so.”

“You don’t know?”

“He’s barely breathing.”

“He is there with you?

“Yes, we are in a basement.”

“Tell me!” Aramis said urgently, breathing now.

“Drugged; there are marks on his arm,” she replied.

“Do you know what drugs?” he asked, his mind searching through A-Zs before Clarisse had even given him the name.

“There are two empty bottles in the kitchen, and a full one in the fridge. Wait.”

He waited, holding his breath again, but his nerves were sparking. He could hear her moving about at the other end. He couldn’t breathe. And then she was back, reading out the name on the label of the small bottle in her hand.

He ran it through his mind, the mental A-Z flipping crazily. But his brain had seized.

He scribbled it down and passed it to Constance, who quickly typed it into her phone, before nodding at him. 

“A sedative, but not dangerous if used carefully,” she said, and he breathed.

Then his brain came to life and it challenged that; 

_Thank God, not a narcotic but still it depends how much they had given him._

But he wanted to laugh; something melting in his chest.

He heard Clarisse shouting Athos’ name; heard the desperation, and it brought him back.

“Alright, I’ll try and bring everything I need,” he said, looking at Constance, standing with her hads to her mouth. She nodded furiously.

Clarisse gave him their location – a house north east of the airport, near Sabanlu.

“How far away?”

“About forty, fifty minutes.

“How did you know where he was?”

_I had a dream._

But she couldn’t go all Martin Luther King on him. And there was another explanation.

“Hunch. Marcheaux stayed here,” she replied testily. 

“Hurry!” she said now; impatient that she was still on the damn line with him.

“Aramis, bring bolt cutters,” she added urgently, before he followed her command and rang off.

“What?”

“He’s chained to the wall.”

**oOo**

Clarisse had visited the house only once, and only seen the upper floors. Marcheaux had called it a safe house; one he had used when he was here on Villiers’ business. It was here she had met Doruk Yilmaz, introduced to her by Marcheaux when they paid a visit to overlook Villiers’ European network.

Doruk was handsome, charming, privately educated, with a cultured voice with just a trace of his native Turkish. He was nothing like his brother. He was a businessman; not part of the family business, spending much of his time out of the country. She had been drawn to him. There had been an instant attraction, followed by a brief liaison, before she had flown back to the UK with Marcheaux. She had not forgotten him.

When Marcheaux had stayed in this house, she had, as now, stayed in a hotel. She had refused to “slum it” which is why it had taken her a while today to locate it; the memory of its location faded with time and lack of interest in the trip she had made with a man she detested. 

She had never been in this basement before. It was basic, and she wondered what it had been used for in the past, which caused her to shiver. The door was not bolted. She had walked straight in, thinking it empty. And there he was, and she thought he was dead; and for a moment something broke in her, before she shored it up. She thought he had briefly looked at her as she took out her phone, but when she looked at him; his eyes were closed once more.

There was a stale loaf on the table; untouched, out of reach.

But as she was cursing Athos, and wondering what to do, she heard a movement behind her.

“Clarisse.”

She froze, but then recognised the voice and relaxed.

By the time she had turned around in response to the familiar voice, she was the woman she had been then; composed and confident.

It was Doruk.

He was the same as she remembered him, as his eyes held hers.

She breathed a sigh of relief. Bulut she did not like. She was frightened of him.

"What's happened here?" he said.

Doruk made to walk over to the bed, but she pre-empted him and stepped forward.

“He’s dead,” she said, quickly.

Doruk turned back at her and allowed a confused expression to fall across his face. He looked from her to Athos, still on the bed; curled into the wall. Then he turned his gaze on her once more.

_That just leaves you,_ he thought. He knew she was here with these men. But he played along.

Looking at her, he wondered how long it would take him to squeeze the life out of her.

“You should not have come,” he said. "You know that Bulut is out of control."

She continued to stare at him, keeping her body between him and the bed; her mind working furiously. 

"Where is he?" she asked, looking at the door.

He merely shrugged.

She felt the perspiration begin to roll down her back; aware of Athos, lying so still behind her. _Please don’t move._

She had to get rid of Doruk, though; she was frightened of his damn psychopath brother, who may be nearby. Bulut had nearly killed Marcheaux. He had killed d’Artagnan’s men.

And Aramis was on his way ...

_Please don’t move, Athos._

“Why are you here, Clarisse?” he asked, reaching out and running a finger down her arm.

She shivered at his touch.

But she could not do this; she had to get him to leave.

And so, she played her final card.

She did not want to, but she had no choice now. She wanted him out of the room. She leant casually on the table to draw his attention away from Athos.

She said she had in her possession something his family would be interested in.

She said would meet him. And she held her breath, watching him think.

He agreed to wait for her call, and raised her hand to his lips to kiss her fingers, holding her gaze while he did so.

_She would not die today._ She would never know just how close she had come.

He was very interested in what she was offering; it would finally free him of Villiers' control.

As he turned and strode out of the room, she almost sank to the floor in relief.

She trusted him - Doruk would help her.

**oOo**

Meanwhile, Aramis was scrambling, putting supplies into his backpack. He and Constance would have to make a quick detour into town for more medical supplies and equipment. He could not go empty-handed. With his NATO ID and his status as a trauma surgeon, it would not be a problem. 

He slung the backpack on his shoulder, and looked around, wondering what else he needed to take. His brain wouldn’t work again and he stood for a moment to still himself. From what Clarisse had told him, he would need to be calm and efficient. Athos had been missing now for a week, and he feared not being able to help, being too late.

_He had been too late to help Thomas._

Composed, and thinking clearly once more, he turned to Porthos.

“Stay.” He said quietly.

Porthos straightened and glared at him, resisting.

“Say what?” he growled, shaking his head and pushing against the hand on his chest.

“Please – we need to know this house is safe. We cannot bring him back here if they know where we are. Guard the house, Porthos.”

They stared at each other.

Porthos thought about it, and then reluctantly nodded.

They moved outside and Porthos helped Aramis load his supplies into the boot of the car.

He put his hand on Aramis’s arm, stopping him.

"Bring 'im back, Aramis," he said firmly; "If he doesn't make it - you bring 'im back."

Aramis nodded.

But Porthos persisted, not letting him move.

Aramis couldn't look at him; feeling the tension rolling off Porthos now.

“If he's dead; we tell the Police, and we take him home, yeah?"

Aramis patted Porthos twice on his chest with his open palm, but could not answer; he merely nodded.

"Home to La Fere," Porthos said, firmly,

Aramis looked up at the sky, feeling suddenly quite bereft. He turned to look at Porthos; the strong one now.

Constance choked back a sob and quickly hugged Porthos, and then they were in the car, leaving him behind and speeding to the location Clarisse had given them.

**To be continued ...**


	12. Chapter 12

Clarisse heard the car tyres spinning gravel outside.

During the last ten minutes, she had left the basement to stand at the open door of the house, impatient, squinting into the sun; searching the road for them. Seeing their car in the distance she turned to head back to the basement, knowing they would find her there. Not knowing what to do, but needing to check.

She heard them running down the stairs and then Aramis and Constance came through the door to thankfully take charge. She quickly got up and moved toward the side of the room; wiping a hand across her eyes as she did so; before leaning against the table, where the damn bread sat. Leaning over, she swiped it angrily onto the floor, where it thudded across the concrete.

Clarisse had arrived a little over an hour before them but it had seemed like an eternity as she had tried to wake him. Apart from an initial confused frown, she had been unable to keep him with her.

She knew Constance had trained as a nurse, before retraining and opening her own hypnotherapy practise in Geneva. After a moment’s hesitation as they took in the scene, Constance and Aramis quickly took over, and Clarisse melted even further into the background.

**oOo**

**First Impressions**

Lying on his side, knees drawn up, facing the wall; like a child. 

Gently, they rolled him over.

He looked calm, almost as if he had fallen asleep. But they winced at the sight of his manacled hand, the unnatural shape and the cuff adhered to his wrist with his own blood. Leaving that arm lying by his side, Aramis began his checks.

His skin was too warm, but his hands were cold.

He was unresponsive.

Taking in the torn tee shirt and bare feet, Aramis ran his hand gently over Athos’s hair, scanning his face.

“You’ve let yourself go, my friend,” he murmured softly.

Aramis sank to his knees and put his ear to his chest, then lifted each eyelid in turn to check his pupils.

“He’s not drugged,” he said, frowning at Constance. “At least, not now.”

Constance pinched the skin on his hand, and the skin remained tented. 

“Severely dehydrated,” she said. “He’s just been left here to die!”

Clarisse jumped when Aramis shouted loudly at Athos, hovering over him; shouting as if he was at the bottom of a deep well, beyond reach.

No response.

Clarisse hadn’t dared touch him, apart from shouting to get him to wake. Her time was taken up speaking to Aramis and then, to Doruk; trying to get rid of him; fearful that Bulut would come.

She had rushed over to Athos as soon as Doruk had gone, relieved he was still breathing. She had convinced Doruk he was dead, standing between them. 

Because Athos looked dead.

She had presumed he was drugged when she spoke to Aramis; finding the evidence in the fridge.

“Hurry up and get some damned fluids into him,” Clarisse hissed now, looking at his backpack; hoping Aramis had something in there to help, despite what she had told him about the sedatives.

Her hard mantle was sliding efficiently back into place, now that she was no longer alone. 

Ignoring her, Aramis continued his assessment.

“His body is shutting down. If his kidneys fail ...” Aramis said, looking at Constance, who quickly pulled the first of two bags of saline solution from his backpack, together with packets of needles and tubes. She tore at the packet with her teeth and quickly withdrew a canula and passed it to Aramis who began searching for a vein in Athos’s dehydrated hand. Between them, it was minutes before they were sorted and the line was connected. Constance held the bag at shoulder height and Clarisse watched as the first drops of liquid entered the tube, descending into his vein.

“We’ll need more,” Aramis said, picking up the bolt cutters.

He cut the metal cuff with the bolt cutters, and groaned when he freed his friend’s wrist.

“What has he done?” he whispered, surveying the damage.

**oOo**

Aramis was now cursing in the kitchen. They heard the fridge door slam and the taps being furiously turned.

“There’s no water.”

Constance could hear the frustration in his voice.

Clarisse appeared calmly in the doorway, looking at them as if they were fools.

She was carrying a saucepan full of water.

“There’s a well outside,” she said bluntly, carrying it over. She had not spent all her time cursing Athos, she had flown around the building, and then outside in search of water. She had wiped his lips, and dripped a little into his mouth, but dare not do more.

She found the main power switch and put the pan on the stove to boil.

“Surely he has to go to hospital!” she said, when she came back into the room; seeing how still Athos was. 

“What?” Aramis replied. “How do we even begin to explain his injuries? Look at his wrist,” he said in exasperation. “It needs to be set; maybe more, depending on the state of the bones.”

“Whoever did this to him may be watching,” Constance said quietly.

“Whoever did this left him to die; they’re long gone,” Clarisse scoffed, knowingly. She had not told them about Doruk. “They’ll think he’s dead by now,” she added bluntly, earning her a glare from Constance. She shrugged in response.

“If we take him to hospital, the police will get involved.” Aramis repeated. “Drugs and dehydration and a manacled wrist? The police would be upon us before we got back to the car park. And do we even trust the police?” 

“There is no way we can even put him in a hot car and drive him back to the villa at the moment,” Constance countered.

She shot a questioning look at Aramis.

“Well,” Constance replied, ever practical; “I was a nurse and you are a doctor ...”

“So we take care of him here ...?” said Aramis straight away.

“At least until he’s stabilised.” Constance finished his thought.

“Better let Porthos know,” she added, pulling out her phone.

Aramis agreed, making a decision.

“We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves; it will be safer to move him during the night, before its light. Tell Porthos we’ll get back before dawn.”

He checked the slow drip of the saline solution.

As he worked, Aramis was still trying to figure it out;

“There’s a kitchen and a toilet, and he must have been fed as some point and given water,” he surmised.

He looked next at Athos’s arm, where four not-too-clean puncture marks tracked down from his inner elbow to his wrist.

“But then they left him to die,” he added, lost in thought.

“Must have got new orders,” Clarisse replied, seeing no point in his continued speculation. Thinking it was Bulut who had done this to Athos. Not knowing that it was Doruk.

Doruk, who was brutally fighting and killing to preserve the network that d’Artagnan was currently bent on dismantling.

Doruk, the man she thought she knew. The man she once thought she loved.

The man she was going to arrange to meet; to bargain for their lives in exchange for the last vital piece of evidence she had that would finish Villiers for good.

Not knowing that Doruk would soon give the order to kill her and her companions; and they would all be fighting for their lives in a very different environment.

**oOo**

Clarisse sat on the bed next to Athos and reached over to move the hair from his face. He was wearing it longer since she had last seen him, but then she realised they had been on holiday when she had first appeared to tell them about d’Artagnan’s call. It seemed like an age ago.

Aramis came out of the kitchen talking. He saw the touching scene and stopped short, the bottles of sedative he had taken from the fridge in his hand; two empty and one still full.

She quickly turned her face away and stood, moving across the room. He smiled softly and moved back to Athos, who was still unresponsive.

“This is a common sedative,” he said, reading the label. “By the amount, this is proof they planned a longer stay. They seemed to have left in a hurry,” he said.

“I wonder why,” he pondered

“It does not matter why,” she whispered.

He looked at her;

“What do you know?”

She shrugged, and he decided he did not have time for her games, turning back to Athos.

“Why isn’t he waking up?” she asked. He was getting fluids, and they had wiped his face and arms with the newly boiled water, but it was as if he was a mannequin lying there, pale and still.

“He’s hasn’t had access to water. The body can only survive for a few days before it’s in serious trouble and the organs start to shut down. I really don’t know how long he’s been like this. Severe dehydration disrupts the metabolism and causes loss of blood volume. His temperature is too high and his blood pressure too low.”

They had not dared put any lights on as it had grown darker, fearing they may be detected. They had worked by flashlight as it got darker, brought from the car, keeping the beam down.

“We’ll have to move him soon,” Constance said, gently washing Athos’s arm and swabbing it with an antiseptic wipe.

He looked dead, and it was scaring her now.

“Is this all about revenge?” she asked plaintively, looking sharply at Clarisse.

“I’m afraid it’s the way of the world,” Aramis replied.

“Villiers world,” Clarisse said quietly.

She wondered where Bulut was, as she stood looking out of the window at the darkening sky. 

And what George Villiers was planning.

**oOo**

As the night began to slip away, they couldn’t wait any longer, needing to move under cover of darkness.

For Constance, the drive back to Sarigerme was a nightmare. 

Clarisse had set off ten minutes before them, driving back first to alert Porthos to their arrival, although they had called him with the news of their success, keeping further calls to a minimum during the night.

Even pre-dawn, there were cars on the road, and they spent a nervous journey scrutinising every car behind them. The last thing they needed was for whoever did this to find out where they were staying. Constance drove as fast as she dared, glancing in the rear view mirror every few minutes, watching the road, and her two passengers behind her. In the rear, Aramis monitored Athos, his condition no worse, but no better. Aramis sat with Athos propped up silently next to him, head heavy on his shoulder. He held him upright with an arm around his shoulder, his other hand gently on his chest, feeling the slow heartbeat thrumming against his fingers. 

Constance gripped the wheel, and willed the miles away.

**To be continued ...**


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to look after their friend, but tempers flare and, in his absence, d'Artagnan's motivations begin to be questioned. Constance is her practical self.

Approaching the Villa, Clarisse also gripped the steering wheel.

Two nights ago, she had been driven out into the night by Milady.

She had gone to bed, not belonging here. No-one had known what to do. Athos had disappeared; Porthos was brooding; blaming himself. He had been sitting with his head in his hands, his fingers occasionally straying to the stitches in his head; as if in penance. She could see the emptiness in his eyes. 

And where the hell was d’Artagnan? This was all his damn hot headed fault.

She knew how Porthos felt. He had looked into Bulut’s face; had seen the same look in Marcheaux’s face, when he had fallen foul of him. 

No-one had been talking and so she had taken herself off to bed. There was a pain in her chest she had never felt before. Not physical, she insisted, but it made it hard to breathe. She knew Bulut. He had Athos. He needed to be restrained, but who would do that?

She had laid down and closed her eyes, not expecting to sleep.

But in the darkness, something changed.

Milady came to her in a wild rush; making her raise her hands to her face in fear of being struck. It was over quickly, and she rolled over, breathing hard. Only to be assaulted once more with a thrash of a skirt against her arm. The air crackled and she watched as Milady strode around the room. She could not tell if she was awake or asleep, but the image that came to her then was vivid.

A house.

She knew it.

It slammed her awake .... and Milady was gone.

Quickly, she had grabbed a set of car keys and fled the villa; drawn on a frantic journey by an image; a dream, and a thread that stretched back four hundred years.

**oOo**

At the Villa Gul, Porthos had been waiting anxiously through the hours.

Clarisse had just arrived and he had set her to making coffee, for something to do. She had a strange look to her; angry, confused, sad. 

His nerves were as taught as wire when he heard the second SUV approaching.

He was out of the door before the car stopped. Clarisse slipped out of the villa and trailed after him.

Impatient, he yanked the door open and reached in. With a nod to Aramis, he scooped Athos out, carrying him inside to one of the downstairs bedrooms that Athos had been using. He had sat in that bedroom for most of the evening, staring at Athos’ things. Remembering a similar vigil in Camp Bastion; sitting and staring.

Aramis grabbed his backpack and followed him in and quickly slung another saline drip over the beam above the bed and set about connecting the line into the canula, still taped in place in the back of Athos’s hand.

“Where’s ‘is boots?” Porthos asked quietly. Then he saw that Clarisse had them in her hand, hanging heavily by her side. He took them from her and moved her to a seat by the window. Then he turned back to watch Aramis and Constance get to work.

“What the ‘ell?” he growled, when Constance peeled back the temporary bandage on Athos’s wrist to reveal the wound underneath and the unnatural shape, evidence of broken bones beneath.

“You gonna set that yourself?” he asked Aramis, knowing they would be staying at the Villa.

“What choice do I have? It’s not as if I haven’t done it before, in the field,” Aramis answered, exhausted. “But I need plaster, and I don’t have any.”

“I’ve got an idea,” said Constance, disappearing into her bedroom and returning with three glossy magazines she had bought at the airport, putting them on the table until she was ready to use them.

There were more important things to help Athos with first.

Athos needed cleaning up. Six days barefoot in a basement had left him in a sorry state. He needed antibiotics and they needed to bring his temperature down. True to form, Aramis seemed to have it all in control, seemingly happy to be doing something at last. Working quickly and efficiently, only the frown and grim set of him mouth betrayed his emotions, as he directed his friends in making their brother comfortable.

**oOo**

While all this was going on, Clarisse stayed in the background, watching. Constance caught her eye at one point.

“He’ll be alright, Aramis is the best,” she said, looking at Clarisse; knowing she wanted to ask but would not. Clarisse did not answer; perhaps annoyed she had appeared so vulnerable.

She went to busy herself in the kitchen again, feeling in the way, not belonging in this close, intimate circle of friends.

**oOo**

Constance now fetched the glossy magazines from the table and sat down, gently placing Athos’ damaged wrist on the top of them. Aramis pushed the bone back into place. Then, rolling the magazines around his arm, she had Porthos tie one of her scarves around the tube, securing it in place at both ends. It made quite an effective temporary cast, and would keep the wrist in place until Aramis could do a better job in a day or so.

“That’s very good,” said Aramis, “I think it will work in the interim. I’m impressed,” he gave her one of his bright smiles.

“Mis-spent lunchtimes, trawling the internet,” she said, but she was quite pleased with herself.

“Don’t sit too close to him,” Aramis said, watching her settle down next to the bed.

She looked up, puzzled.

“He sometimes wakes up swingin’” Porthos said quietly. 

“An observation learned from previous experience,” said Aramis, bent on his tasks.

**oOo**

**A flare-up:**

There was not much more to be done but wait; but exhaustion and worry for Athos left nerves frayed. There was still tension between Constance and Clarisse. Constance could not help but be protective toward Athos and could not hold her tongue no longer after one too many of Clarisse’s shrugs; her old argument flaring once more.

“Everything was fine!” she had said, rounding on Clarisse. He was better,” she added quietly, thinking of Ninon

“What would you have me do?” Clarisse countered. “Forget d’Artagnan called me? Pretend I had not heard it? And how would that go down with you when they found his body in the Bosphorus??!!

Aramis watched them; both squaring up to each other.

Athos liked Clarisse, he knew; was drawn to her, somehow. For good or bad, he had never seen his friend look at anyone the way he looked at Clarisse.

He sighed.

“You two,” he said softly. “Quiet. This isn’t helping him.”

And they stopped hurling abuse at each other and stilled.

**oOo**

The house was quiet then, and they settled down around him, falling silent. They only stirred to fill up on caffeine, in order to stay awake.

Lying in the middle of the double bed, Athos looked diminished. There was no other word for it. His face was pale and his cheeks were sunken. During the afternoon, his lips parted and he started to breathe more regularly through his mouth, his chest moving gently with each breath. He made no movement though, and Constance held tightly onto his hand, as if the very act would force energy into him.

The hours went by slowly.

Finally, in the dimly lit bedroom in the early hours, surrounded by his friends, Athos slowly opened his eyes.

His face softened when he recognised Constance.

“Hello, lovely,” she said to him, her voice infinitely tender, as she sat next to his bed; smiling for the first time in days. 

Athos continued to look into her eyes, and then his face briefly crumpled and he almost sobbed with relief when he saw Porthos over her shoulder. Alive.

He tried to speak, but no words came. Porthos came forward and crouched down, bringing his face to eye level. He took Athos’s hand in his two, as Constance moved quietly away.

“Ssshhhh ...” he said, his voice low;

“I don’t understand it ... ‘ow she found you ... and I prayed for it .... I did ...” he pressed his lips together and shook his head. “But we got you back, so you get strong now, yeah? You’re our brother, Athos. Brothers belong together.”

As Porthos moved back,he caught Clarisse's eye as she stood near the door; _Thank you,"_ he mouthed silently, not wishing to embarrass her, and she nodded.

Constance retook her seat next to Athos and told him gently that they were all there, with him.

Athos's eyes held a depth of emotion, telling them all he wanted to say, but did not yet have the voice to do so.

There was no energy in him to answer her. He could not even lift his hand to take hers. She seemed to understand as she took his hand and then placed a cold wet cloth on his forehead.

It seemed to wake him a little and he again tried to speak.

“Don’t try and talk; you are very dehydrated. You must be feeling very poorly, love,” Constance whispered.

She looked up over his shoulder and his eyes followed hers and he saw the saline bag above him, hanging low from one of the ceiling beams. 

"You'll be fine, we're sorting you out."

“Clarisse found you,” she added, checking the needle in his hand. “I don’t know how, but if she hadn’t, you would have died,” she said, her voice catchinng but for the first time, generously acknowledging the other woman’s efforts.

This time when Athos followed her gaze, he saw Clarisse standing against the wall, looking pale and almost tearful.

_That’s a new look,_ he thought as he closed his eyes and slipped quietly once more over the edge into, this time, welcomed darkness. 

**oOo**

When he opened his eyes, he could hear voices filtering in through the open doorway, the bright light from the other room spilling through. Turning to look up at the empty saline bag, he heard movement next to him. He froze, visions of Savas swam in front of him and tried to bring his arm up but it was heavy and would not move.

“Temporary cast,” said a familiar voice. 

Porthos.

“Rolled up glossy magazines and my scarf,” another voice said.

Constance.

“We have had to be quite inventive, my friend,” said another.

Aramis.

Athos relaxed.

“Your blood pressure is very low, mon ami,” he heard Aramis say,” so don’t try and sit up, you will only faint.”

As if they did not trust him, a hand landed on his chest. Again, visions of Savas holding him down took him near panic before he focussed on Aramis’s smiling face, now hovering above him.

Holding on to the warm smile, Athos took a deep breath and allowed himself to sink into the comfortable mattress, and he gladly accepted the water held to his lips. After a few moments of comfortable silence, they seemed satisfied enough to leave him alone and headed toward the door. Only then did he realise he wasn’t quite alone as someone sat down next to him.

The familiar perfume alerted him to Clarisse’s presence and eventually, she spoke.

“You were very lucky,” she said quietly. For once, her eyes were not angry; she looked subdued.

“Porthos said you almost made them take you.”

When he did not answer, she just muttered, “Fool.”

Athos sighed.

“He would have put up a fight,” he said quietly, finding his voice. “They would have killed him.” 

He heard a movement and saw Porthos in the doorway, staring angrily at him. 

“You would ‘ave done that? Sacrificed yourself?” he said, his voice low and shimmering with anger.

Porthos held his gaze and then turned and went back into the other room.

“Porthos!” Athos called wearily.

“Leave him. He feels bad. He’ll get over it.” She reached forward and almost took his hand; instead content to touch his finger tips with hers.

They stared at each other; both unsure of how to proceed.

He was the first to break the spell.

“How did you know where to find me?”

“Educated guess,” she replied, haughtily.

At his raised eyebrow, she relented, “I’ve been there before.”

She explained then that Marcheaux had used the house when they had come on a visit for Villiers. She had stayed in the hotel, but had to pick him up one morning to visit Erogan to organise payment for a shipment of weapons.

“Why were you shouting at me?” he suddenly asked.

It was her turn to look confused.

“In the basement,” he said. "Why were you shouting?"

_Because you were dying, you beautiful idiot._

“Because you were dying, you idiot.”

“Was I?” he asked weakly. “Oh, I suppose I was.”

They continued to look at each other.

“But how did you find me in the dark? Aramis said there was no power. How did you know to look in the basement?” Athos asked her.

Clarisse looked confused.

“It wasn’t dark; I found you at 7.00 a.m in broad daylight ...”

“Then who was it who shouted at me during the night?”

“What do you remember?” asked Clarisse, frowning.

And then he did remember.

“A voice like yours ... well, almost like yours - a little more precise, perhaps; though not very ladylike," he mused, lost in the image of her cursing. "The fragrance of jasmine; swish of clothes;” he said slowly. There had been other words, too but he had not really been able to grasp them.

His eyes drifted to her face in recognition.

_“Milady,”_ they almost said together.

She laughed then, and he was lost in the rare sound of it.

“Actually,” she ventured, “I had a dream about her; she was ... persistent. It woke me up and I remembered the house. I drove there at first light

“It seems you have a guardian angel, Athos,” Clarisse added, smiling.

“I have two,” he said, “And both of you shout at me.”

She smiled then, and leant forward to brush his hair aside and place a soft kiss on his forehead.

Later, when she made to rise, he caught her hand.

_“Stay,”_ he whispered.

She did, until he slept.

**oOo**

Constance appeared with a pureed mix of food in a bowl. Still too dizzy to fully sit up, she banked up his pillows and then helped him to swallow a few mouthfuls.

“God knows when you last ate something solid,” she grumbled, and he smiled as he fell asleep, the next spoonful poised at his lips. She was happy though, and left him to sleep, pulling the sheet up around him.

Later, he felt fingers touch his lips. His eyes flew open and he gasped.

_Not Savas._

Constance was carefully applying lip balm to his sore, dry lips.

She shushed him and smiled, and he relaxed, watching her; allowing her to continue.

“Its Mojito flavour – I thought you’d like it,” she said softly, as her eyes met his.

She smiled at her own teasing.

But it was true, he could taste it now.

She put her hand gently over his mouth to catch his smile.

“Be still, it will hurt if you smile. And we don’t want that.”

She was too late; as she looked at him, she saw his smile had reached his eyes.

**oOo**

He slept a great deal at first; the sleep of the exhausted. Porthos watched; quietly turning off the ceiling fan when he saw it made him restless. They were quiet in their movements and approached him gently, as he startled easily.

Constance filled the room with roses from the garden.

When she caught them all watching, she just said she wanted the room to be nice every time he opened his eyes; to wipe away the images of the basement. The next day, she was touched when Clarisse thrust a bag into her hands that contained six vanilla scented candles she had bought in the market; hurrying away before Constance could react. Aramis made sure the windows were open so the breeze could be felt and ensured the bedroom door was always open so he could hear them moving around. 

The sun was allowed to stream into the room, unabated.

Together, they flooded his senses, bringing him gently back to them. 

**To be continued ...**


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are some heart-to-hearts to be had, and Athos gets plastered.

Villiers received the news that both de la Fere and du Vallon were dead with some satisfaction.

He would have preferred that they had just killed them both outright instead of leaving things to chance, but he had long understood that the Yilmaz family had their own way of dealing with such things, Bulut, in particular, enjoyed toying with his victims. It also seemed the family were having problems of their own if the news of their recent compound fire was true. Erogan had been silent on the matter. 

Meanwhile, Doruk Yilmaz had his own vendetta to pursue. He had not told Villiers about seeing Clarisse; it had been a surprise to see her in the basement; but it had been obvious she was with de la Fere and du Vallon once more and she had saved her miserable life at the last minute by offering him a deal; which he readily agreed to. He would be rid of her and Villiers soon enough. For that reason, he patiently awaited her call.

**oOo**

In the Villa Gul, Porthos felt it was time to confront his friend.

Athos heard him come in to his room, but did not open his eyes. It was a conversation that he knew they had to have and he had been waiting for Porthos to initiate it; not sure quite how he would answer. He had hoped it would not be quite so soon.

“Athos?”

Porthos’s tone was gentle at least, and so Athos cracked open an eye.

“Porthos? ....I was in St Lucia ...”

Porthos laughed, he knew St Lucia was one of Athos’s “safe places,” where he retreated in self hypnosis when he needed to.

“Well,” he replied, laughing quietly, “It’s time to get you outta the sun. We need to talk.”

“I know, my friend,” Athos sighed, indicating the seat Constance could usually be found perched upon.

They spoke quietly together then.

They talked about what had happened when Bulut attacked them, and they reached a mutual understanding;

That Athos would never stop sacrificing himself for his brothers.

And Porthos would always defy the order that preceded that action.

**oOo**

Athos’ wrist had taken second place to the rest of his physical issues, but it couldn’t be ignored any longer.

“Why did you do this, my friend,” Aramis asked as he soaked bandages in plaster.

“I don’t know.”

“I do,” said Porthos.

“Last act of defiance,” he growled.

“Something like that,” Athos smiled, letting them think he had done it himself trying to break free; not wishing to tell them the truth about what had happened with Savas.

The wound caused by the metal cuff had had time to settle, but plaster could not be put straight on top of it, and so again, Constance came up with a solution. She had produced one of her unworn flight socks, which would be fitted beneath the hardening bandages. As the plaster dried, it would protect the skin beneath. Aramis had manipulated the broken bones back into place when they first arrived while Athos was unconscious. Such an action would have been too painful without the correct pain relief, and paracetamol didn’t cut it. 

Now Athos watched in amusement as Aramis cut the toe from the sock and wound it down over his wrist, stopping short of his elbow.

“I know,” Constance said, watching him. “My leg is wider than your arm. But it’s not supposed to be too tight, so there.” She stuck her tongue out at him.

He smiled.

“I have never been plastered before,” Athos said quietly, watching Aramis wrap the plaster-soaked bandages around his wrist.

Aramis stopped what he was doing and just looked at him.

Then, they all burst out laughing.

**oOo**

They did everything they could, but one thing remained to be resolved.

It was Aramis who would address that.

When Athos was caught in the blast of an ied in Afghanistan, it had been Aramis, one of the Camp Bastion trauma surgeons, who had saved his life. He had put his skull back together, and cared for his other wounds. He had listened to his nightmares, and it was Aramis who always seemed to be sitting there when he woke up. Equally Porthos, a true brother, had never left his side; but it was Aramis, a stranger, who had tenaciously supervised his recovery, hounded him into self awareness, and eventually into friendship. They had all walked the complicated path into the brotherhood that now bound them together.

But tonight, he wanted to ask Athos a simple question.

It _was_ a simple question, but he knew it held a complexity that had the potential to unleash a torrent of emotions.

Aramis could not imagine what it must have been like to face mortality the way Athos had, alone in that basement. Athos had not been forthcoming.

It was a question he had to ask, and he knew Athos would expect him to.

So he asked it.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” 

But this was Athos, and he merely sighed.

“Technically, trauma counselling should not commence until several weeks after the traumatic event. The conscious mind needs time to process what has happened and ...” he waved his hand ...”file it away.”

“Rest assured he added, "it is not like before." 

After his discharge from the Army, he had isolated himself and drank more than he should. He had suffered anxiety and flashbacks. Then with the help and support of his brothers, he had slowly recovered and Aramis had introduced him to Jean Treville. The rest, as they say, was history.

Athos was now surrounded by friends and fellow therapists and had his own techniques for coping with post traumatic stress.

Aramis knew he was a different person now. Whilst seeking out help and people to talk to was still not his default position, he could now acknowledge any negative symptoms and not let them overwhelm him. It did not do to help people with such symptoms during his working day, if he ignored his own advice should he need similar support.

Aramis smiled and patted his arm.

“You have come a long way, my friend,” he said softly.

“I have had people around me who gave me reason to fight,” Athos answered simply.

“When we found you in the basement, it looked like you had accepted death,” Aramis said carefully.

“Yes, on my own terms,” he answered quietly. “But then ... she was there.”

“Clarisse?”

“No ... Milady.”

“You saw her?”

“I saw her ... I felt her ... I heard her.”

“For what purpose?”

“Not for herself this time, I think,” Athos replied.

“What then?”

“I think ...to hold me there. Until you came.”

“We could not have found you without Clarisse.”

“Milady again. Clarisse said came to her in a dream.”

“Well, whatever happened in that God-awful basement, I am happy you were not alone when you needed someone; I am only sorry it was not Porthos or I who found you.”

“But _you_ brought me back, and I thank you for it.”

“Even so, I am sorry, brother,” Aramis whispered, “Perhaps we should have got you to the hospital,” Aramis said, doubting his decision.

“No!” Athos was adamant. “You made the right decision. It would have compromised d’Artagnan. We came here to help him.”

“And we _have_ ,” Aramis replied cautiously. But he was uneasy. “We located him and supported him. If you had not been hurt, we could continue. I am sure Clarisse has unfinished business here. But this is too high a price to pay. Perhaps it d’Artagnan who needs to rethink his plan.”

“He will not do that. He is set on finishing what he started. And do you not believe that we are part of Erogan’s plans; that we have not been all the while? It would have happened sooner or later. Villiers will not back down, I fear; wherever we are. I, for one, would prefer it to be over, but d’Artagnan has lost two men and he is obligated to their memory; that is always a burden of command.”

Aramis sighed.

“He is also obligated to vengeance. Perhaps it is time for us to leave.”

When Athos did not answer, Aramis straightened and stood; there had been enough emotion in this room these last few days. He did not want to add an argument to that. He was looking for a way to lighten the mood, but Athos beat him to it. 

“Am I allowed wine?” Athos asked, pinning Aramis with a hopeful look. “For medicinal purposes,” he added with a smirk.

“I think I can prescribe a very small glass,” Aramis laughed. “Just to keep your spirits up,” he added, as he patted his arm and padded out of the room.

**oOo**

Whether it was the glass of wine, or his troublesome talk with Aramis, but the nightmare, when it came, was ferocious, waking them all.

Throwing open the door, Porthos was the first to his side, grabbing his cast so that he did not injure himself. That only seemed to make him worse and he continued to struggle. His back arched and his head twisted from side to side, in seeming battle with forces unseen. 

One word was repeated over and over;

_"Savas."_

In the end, it was Constance who brought him out of it. She sometimes used aromatherapy oils in her practice to help clients to relax and always carried a small box of oils with her when she travelled, and in this case, she grabbed a bottle of patchouli oil. Athos had hated the smell when she introduced it to him; it had a very distinctive odour and some people found the smell wonderful, whereas others were irritated by it. Athos was one of the latter.

Now, she grabbed the bottle and held it under his nose, as Porthos put his hand on his forehead, holding his head still. Almost instantly, Athos was back in the room, coughing and spluttering, his eyes wide open, looking at her.

“I am offended,” he gasped, pushing it away and glaring at her.

“Who or what is “Savas?” Porthos asked, breathing hard from his exertions.

When Athos visibly shuddered but did not reply, Aramis laid a hand on his arm.

Athos took an unsteady breath.

“He is very dangerous ...he is a maniac.”

Aramis sat down.

“Did he attack you? Did he do that?” he asked Athos, indicating his wrist.

When Athos did not reply, Aramis became angry.

“Come on, Athos, that is down to a considerable amount of force!”

“He ...wanted something from me,” Athos answered, looking warily at Constance. “I fought him. When we heard the bones snap – he was called off.”

“By who?” asked Porthos.

“By Doruk Yilmaz,” Athos answered. “He introduced himself with quite a flare.”

His eyes flicked to Clarisse as he spoke and he saw her expression briefly falter. 

Clarisse composed herself quickly, but she was shocked. 

_It was Doruk who was Athos’s jailer._

“Doruk was there?” she asked.

Athos nodded.

“Watching.”

“Who’s Doruk?” asked Constance, looking from Athos to Clarisse.

“Erogan’s son,” Clarisse answered, “Bulut’s brother.” 

“My God!” cried Constance, her hand to her mouth.

“I’ll kill the bastards.” Porthos said, his voice deadly.

No-one doubted him.

Athos was exhausted then and Aramis called a halt to the talking, ushering them out.

“You rest now,” he said gently, as Athos searched his face. Aramis knew what he was thinking.

“It’s alright. No-one’s going to do anything right now. I’ll keep an eye on Porthos. We’ll talk about it later,” he added, reaching down and squeezing his shoulder.

Clarisse had walked away with her hand to her mouth, holding in her emotions; her mind working furiously.

Doruk had been Athos’s jailer, not Bulut.

Doruk had not chanced by in search of his mad brother. He had come back to make sure Athos was dead. 

She had bargained with him to make him leave the basement.

And he was expecting her to meet him. Soon.

**oOo**

After the nightmare, Athos could not, or would not sleep. Something was troubling him, but he would not be drawn. Constance had an idea that whatever had happened between him and this Savas creature had not been dealt with yet. However, Constance was a determined woman and would not be dissuaded from helping her friend. Athos’ unconscious mind needed a little help.

“My speciality is nightmares, remember?” she told him. And she had a trick up her sleeve.

In the end, he capitulated. 

He closed his eyes, and she started to talk quietly. They had trained together, and he would know these words;

_Ten ...nine ...and deeper and deeper ...eight ...seven ...six ...drifting down ...ever deeper relaxed ...five ...four ...three ...and deeper and deeper still ...two ...one ...and all the way deep down relaxed ..._

_...staying deeper relaxed ...you may soon find that your mind begins to wander ...and it doesn’t matter where you drift ...where you go ... **my voice will go with you** ... will travel along with you ...my voice can even assume the identity of someone else ...someone you know ...someone you can relate to ...so that you will continue to ...respond to me on an unconscious level ...no matter where you are ..._

_...and in a few moments in time ...you will hear me say the word ... NOWwww ...and whenever you hear me say the word ... NOWww ... all the unnecessary nervous tension is going out of your body ...and your body ...will continue to sink down ...more and more limp ...relaxed ...and comfortable too ...in fact ...your body is going to feel ...so pleasantly comfortable ...there will be times when ...you will not even be aware of your body ...won’t be aware of your body at all ...so ready ...I would like you to ...NOWww ...allow every muscle in your body to relax ...a very pleasant ...slightly warm sensation ...may be soon ...begin to spread ...from your chest ...and shoulders ...and out over your whole body ...and I would like you to ...NOWww... let this wonderful feeling ...go all the way down ...through your body ...down to your fingertips ...and down to your toes ..._

At the phrase, “My Voice Will Go With You....” it is Treville’s voice that took over. It was a phrase of infinite power.

Constance gave him some hypnotic suggestion for rehydration; images of electrolytes dancing through his veins, refreshing and renewing; a waterfall he could stand under; healing, soothing images and words.

When his breathing evened out, Porthos helped her gently roll him on his back and soon he was deeply asleep.

As they both padded quietly out of his room, although neither of them voiced it, they were both feeling uneasy.

**oOo**

That evening, Constance wandered into the garden. It was a still night. The moon was full, bright and luminous; its reflections dancing on the surface of a small ornate pool in the centre of the paved pathway. The sound of chicadas filled the air, reminding her briefly of La Fere. The fragrance of roses leant an almost English feel, the overall effect making her already fragile emotions swim a little.

For this was a foreign place; a culture strange to her. And, as beautiful as it was, as friendly as some of the local people had been to her, all she wanted to do was leave. To wrap her wonderful, duty-bound friend up and whisk him back to London, where he had thrived.

She loved d’Artagnan. She had from the moment she first saw him. They had a long distance relationship, formed the night Porthos had drawn them together at a regimental dinner; knowing in his infinite wisdom that they would be good together. But she could not forgive him for this. She understood his reasons, but there was still a recklessness to him that sometimes over-rode his training. She knew Porthos and Aramis felt it too.

She thought of them all as her boys, even though she was the youngest of them.

d’Artagnan would have known that if anything was wrong, they would drop everything to reach out to each other. Aramis to ease their physical pain; Porthos to fiercely protect, and Athos, dear Athos, to bring sense to chaos and return equilibrium.

He should have known.

And what about Clarisse?

She had seen how Athos had looked at Clarisse at La Fere. She had hoped he would find happiness with her dearest friend, Ninon. But he had described them one evening as fire and ice, and she knew then that he could not separate them; they were two halves of a whole. She sighed deeply and sank down onto a stone bench beneath a rose-strewn wooden arch.

She sat like that for a while before sensing movement.

Raising her head, she saw a large, dark hand in front of her, incongruously holding a delicate rosebud.

Porthos.

She looked up at him, her eyes shining, and a small laugh escaped her, and she reached out and took it.

They were brothers to each other. But they were brothers to her too, and they would also seek her out, to help and comfort; to share a burden.

“Come ‘ere,” he growled tenderly.

She stood readily and felt his strong arms around her, infinitely gentle; reassuring.

“Let’s go see how our fearless leader is doin’"

They wandered back into the villa. Opening the door to Athos’s bedroom, they were relieved to see he was still asleep.

Just then, a movement near the window caught their attention and Porthos whirled around, in a crouch, pulling Constance behind him.

d’Artagnan stepped forward, pulling the black cap from his head.

**To be continued ...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Plastered" is a UK term for very, very, drunk.
> 
> For those of you who are interested: The word "Nowwwww" used in the hypnotherapy script should be said like a long drawn out sigh. It is an "ideo-motor" response, i.e. the "idea" leads to the "muscle response" so you are effectively programming the client so that when the word Nowwwww is used and repeated it automatically triggers relaxation. They melt. Always very effective. I sometimes whisper it to myself and it still works a treat. Also, it is perfectly possible that the hypnotised subject will hear the voice of someone they know and trust, apart from the therapist, if you suggest it during the session.
> 
> Meaning of Turkish names, if you are interested: Bulut = "Cloud," Doruk = "Top of the Mountain," Savas = "Battle," Metin = "Tough," Erogan is a made-up name. The surname "Yilmaz," = "Dauntless."
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of regrets spoken, and vengeance sought.

Porthos stared at d’Artagnan. 

“Where the ‘ell have you been?” he said, his voice low and angry. Constance was about to speak, but Porthos raised his hand in her direction, keeping his eyes firmly on d’Artagnan, and she stilled.

Before d’Artagnan could answer, Porthos reached out and grabbed the front of his jacket.

“Not here,” he growled, aware that Athos was asleep, a few feet away.

Pulling d’Artagnan by his jacket, he moved them all into the kitchen, quietly closing the bedroom door. Porthos then pulled back, unable to hide an anger that has been simmering in him since they had arrived in Turkey.

He moved Constance aside and rounded on d’Artagnan, angry at him for going off-grid in what he now saw as a personal vendetta.

Up to this point, d’Artagnan had not said a word; allowing himself to be pulled and pushed by Porthos; aware of the anger in him. 

_“Porthos.”_

At the sound of Aramis’s voice, Porthos grunted and let go of d’Artagnan, stepping away in frustration.

“I’m sorry,” d’Artagnan said softly, looking from Porthos to Aramis; his eyes shining.

Glancing at Athos’s door to make sure it was shut, Aramis strode across the room and pushed d’Artagnan fiercely up against the wall.

“Athos nearly died,” he hissed. Then, more quietly, “Any other man would have.”

“I know,” d’Artagnan replied softly, pushing Aramis back. “I know.”

Aramis was breathing hard; he shot a look to Porthos who was still glowering at the younger man.

Faced with their onslaught, d’Artagnan confessed that he was, in fact, not on leave, but was following orders.

He was doing his job; and results were expected.

They were all stunned into silence. Constance, who was just about to intervene, sat down. Aramis let go and stepped back. It was Porthos who reached over and pulled d’Artagnan away and demanded an explanation.

“Athos should hear this,” Aramis said, calling a halt, and went to break the news of d’Artagnan’s return.

**oOo**

A few moments later, Aramis opened the door and nodded for them to enter. d’Artagnan followed them into Athos’s room, and bent to place a kiss on his temple.

Clarisse joined them then, disturbed by the noise. Seeing the look on Porthos and Aramis’s faces, she held his tongue.

They all settled in as d’Artagnan explained that he was put in the situation by orders from his superiors to get close to Erogan’s operation, and dismantle the European/Asian network. His men were all Special Forces though all knowledge of them would be denied. They were working alone, with no back-up. If d'Artagnan was caught, it was to go on the record that he had gone rogue; going off-grid to complete the mission from the previous year.

Edward Millington knew it was an official mission, but could not tell Athos, when he had called. Millington had only confirmed d’Artagnan’s cover story, that he was working on his own time. Much was at stake.

“Why did you ask me to ring him?” Athos asked.

“I wanted him to know you were involved. In case anything happened to me. I’m expendable, but he could not ignore a danger to you as civilians, or any hint there was an operation going on. This is all supposed to be the highest level of secrecy.

“So you were putting it on record,” Aramis said, and d'Artagnan nodded.

What Millington did not know, was that this was personal to d’Artagnan and he was playing both roles; that of his cover-story; the dutiful soldier following orders, and that of a man seeking the total destruction of an English aristocrat who had almost killed his brothers last year and was still overseeing the expanding Turkish network whilst pulling out all the stops to get an appeal heard. 

When Athos was taken, d’Artagnan knew he would have to break cover. To carry on with his mission, but also to keep the family at bay.

d’Artagnan sat down next to Athos.

“I couldn’t find you,” he whispered, looking down.

Athos smiled. 

“And yet, I am here,” he said.

d’Artagnan looked over to Porthos, who was still scowling.

“You said you didn’t know where he was, but you knew who had taken him. That’s where I’ve been.”

Porthos grunted; he had said that. 

Athos felt the tension between them and sighed.

“You had your mission, d’Artagnan. Your Commanding Officer would not have thanked you for failing in your duty, and using your heart instead of your head.”

“I wanted to do both!” d’Artagnan said then, in a strangled voice. “I tried to make them talk, but nobody knew where you were.”

Porthos, who had known d’Artagnan the longest, put his hand on the young man’s shoulder. It was enough for d’Artagnan to relax a little and smile for the first time. He had been devoid of touch for some time and that simple act almost shattered him into pieces.

Porthos spoke then.

“None of us knew. It was like he disappeared off the face of the earth.”

“How then?” d’Artagnan looked up, confused.

“Clarisse,” Athos said, smiling at her across the room.

“You should be on our team,” d’Artagnan said grudgingly, looking across at her. In return, she gave him her best withering look and threw in a sneer for good measure.

“Perhaps not,” Athos replied. “She has a lively ancestor; who knows what traits she has inherited?”

“So, what have you been doing?”Aramis asked, mellowing a little toward their younger brother.

“Making a nuisance of myself,” he grinned, wiping his hand quickly across his face and recovering some of the energy they all recognises.

He told them he had eliminated some of Erogan’s men, destroyed transportation and disrupted supply routes.

That had stirred things up, there would be crisis talks amongst the Yilmaz family and he wanted to see who actually would be involved in that so he could tell what sides they were on. There seemed to be a power play brewing amongst them. It was Bulut who had killed his men, but as they now explained, it was Doruk who had suddenly left Athos to die in the basement. He needed to know Villier’s part in that. Someone was giving them information. He had to find out who.

“So what now?” Athos asked. “They know you.”

“No, they don’t. Bulut has never seen me. He only appeared in the warehouse; not when we were taken.”

“Then there is Doruk,” Athos said, grimly.

“You do realise, they both think you are both dead,” Clarisse said, looking from Athos to Porthos.

“That’s good; hopefully that will buy us some time,” d’Artagnan said. “There is someone I am anxious to find.”

They all exchanged a look and waited for him to continue, but d’Artagnan didn’t enlighten them.

Clarisse sighed, and strode toward the door. 

“Well, as nice as this is; let me know what you all decide, I’m going to bed,” she said, leaving them to it.

Athos waited until he was sure she had gone. 

“In the meantime, there is the complication of Clarisse,” Athos said quietly. “As she said, we are dead; but Villiers will not let her live.”

“That was not supposed to happen,” sighed d’Artagnan. “She drew you all into this. Innocently, admittedly.”

“She did what she thought was best,” Constance said in Clarisse’s defence. There was no love lost between them, but she had to grudgingly admit she didn’t have to travel to La Fere to warn them. Then again, any excuse to see Athos, she thought. 

“I know. I was quite surprised by that,” d’Artagnan said, smiling at Constance, getting her point.

“And she did find Athos,” Constance said, beginning to feel a little guilty about her continued ambivalence toward her. Perhaps she should cut the woman a little slack.

d’Artagnan stood then and made ready to leave, embracing his brothers; back once more on an even footing.

“Need I ask you to be careful?” Athos said, happy to see them all in accord once more.

d’Artagnan grinned.

“I’ve got this,” he replied.

“The confidence of youth,” Athos replied, exchanging a weary look with his brothers.

All was serious then, as d’Artagnan told them he hoped to be in touch very soon; he had a lead and was about to follow it.

Constance walked him through the villa to the door, where he hung on to her a little too tightly, but she didn’t mind.

**oOo**

**A Delight-ful moment**

Athos had been on a diet of pureed food for a few days now, when Clarisse slipped into his room with a gleam in her eye.

He looked warily at her, wondering what she was up to, noticing she was carrying a covered dish.

Sitting down next to him, she leaned forward.

“Close your eyes and open your mouth,” she said, smiling.

He gave her one of his looks, but she just laughed.

“I said close them, don’t roll them!” 

He tentatively complied, and she carefully placed a small square of authentic pink Turkish Delight into his open mouth. Surprised at first, the texture and taste was a revelation, after the blandness of his current diet. He gently chewed and swallowed, before opening his eyes and staring at her in awe.

“Nice?” she asked, watching him, her lips pressed together in a small smile, her green eyes sparkling.

“Exquisite,” he replied, before closing his eyes again.

“Got to keep your blood glucose levels up,” she said before slowing rising. "Don't tell Constance," she whispered conspiratorially. She slowly stroked his arm from his hand to his elbow and turned, sauntering from the room; leaving him with a smile on his face as the taste lingered long after she had gone; along with the touch.

He made a mental note to return the favour.

**oOo**

Two days later, d’Artagnan had found the man he had been searching for since he blew up the compound.

He watched from the shadows as the man approached his car; a briefcase held tightly under his arm.

As the man unlocked his car, d’Artagnan threw a pebble at the car. The man spun, peering into the shadows, he could see nothing.

 _“Kimse var mi?”_ he hissed. (“Who is there?”)

After a few moments of allowing the man to sweat, d’Artagnan stepped forward and they came face to face.

 _“Intikam,”_ d’Artagnan replied coldly. (“Retribution.”)

But Polat Hamdi was a vicious little thug, and it took a several minutes to subdue him.

Once d’Artagnan had finished with this insignificant looking little man, and had made him talk; he had what he wanted. 

It was Metin Yilmaz who was the key player; Metin who this man spoke about after some persuasion; Metin who they all feared more than Erogan.

Searching the dead man’s briefcase, he now also knew where to find Metin. He scanned the paperwork, throwing some aside, but taking one particular sheet and folding it, putting it inside his jacket. He left Polat Hamdi’s body in the boot of his car.

“That’s for Athos,” he said, as he slammed the lid.

Metin Yilmaz was about to acquire a shadow. 

**To be continued ...**


	16. Chapter 16

Metin Yilmaz was ready.

Now, as he made his way to his brother’s house, he knew things had to change. But Erogan was not for change. He was happy with the status quo, taking orders from Villiers and the promise of a regular flow of money, even though he no longer needed it. He had more than he could spend in his lifetime.

Metin had called off the guards earlier, so Erogan was quite alone in the house. Driving up to the front of his brother’s house, Metin switched off the engine and took the gun from the glove compartment.

This could not be done without violence. He knew his brother; he would not change.

Erogan was in his study. He had been drinking, and was now sitting back in his chair, his hand wrapped around the silver photo frame that showed a young couple on their wedding day. It had been the happiest day of his life. The whole village had turned out, and all he could remember now was the smiling faces, everywhere he looked. Part of him had died when Marianna died three years ago.

In front of him was a box, which held her letters. He had lost interest in everything. He had maintained a hold on the business, had been just as ruthless, but his sons would soon take over. He could no longer see a future when he looked ahead. When he looked at her young, hopeful face in the photograph, he knew he had let her down badly. She had been left to her own devices for much of the time and now, it was too late to make amends. He had not deserved her, and he had ultimately betrayed her.

“You’ve not been the same man since she died,” Metin said quietly, startling him.

It was not a statement of brotherly love. 

It was a statement from a man so devoid of any emotional depth, so incapable of any compassion and so driven by personal gain that the bond they had once had as brothers was a distant memory, easily forgotten. 

Recovering from his initial surprise, Erogan carefully laid the photo frame face down.

He slowly stood and looked coldly at the man in front of him.

Picking up the box, he threw it at his brother, yelling “Onursuz var!” _(“You Have No Honour!”)_

The contents of the box flew around the room.

“Hicbir ruh var!” _(“You Have No Soul!) ___

____

Unmoved, Metin smiled, and raised his gun.

____

**oOo**

____

Outside, d’Artagnan , the shadow Metin did not know he had, watched from a safe distance, and after half an hour, when Metin hurried out and drove away, he moved toward the house.

____

All was quiet. There appeared to be no guards.

____

Moving into the house, he made his way through the rooms. 

____

Finally, he approached the room at the end of the corridor at the back of the house. A light shone beneath the door, which was slightly ajar. He gently pushed the door open.

____

Erogan was lying on the floor with a bullet hole in his forehead.

____

There were papers strewn around the floor, d’Artagnan moved first to the desk and searched through the drawers.

____

In the top drawer was a cell phone, which he briefly flicked through before storing it in his pocket. Then, he moved on to papers, putting several in a pile on top of the desk. Finally, he bent to pick up the box from the floor, and placed it back on the desk. He collected the scattered contents and read briefly through them before he seized on some letters, still in their original envelopes. Taking the pile of papers and the one envelope in particular, he took a final look at the once powerful man lying prone on the floor, and turned to leave.

____

He came face to face with a large man with long greasy black hair. The man looked at the dead man on the floor and his face contorted into an unholy grimace. He emitted an angry growl and d’Artagnan involuntarily took a step back, when he saw the man had no tongue. He zipped up his jacket to protect his evidence, and curled his fingers around the butt of his gun at his back as the man launched himself at him. 

____

With no time to retrieve his gun, his hand was jammed up against his back as he was slammed into the wall behind the desk, the air rushing out of his lungs. He felt a hand on his face, fingers trying to gouge his eyes and, realising he was no match for the man’s strength, he brought his knee up into his groin. 

____

Nothing happened.

____

He brought his left hand up and stabbed his knuckles into the man’s throat. 

____

That had a better result, and the man staggered back.

____

d’Artagnan moved fast, smashing the gun into his head, and the man staggered back, his feet hitting the dead Erogan and falling backward over him, landing in a crashing heap next to his dead boss. He re-holstered his gun and, jumping over the two of them, he ran out of the house.

____

Erogan was dead, and Metin was now in a very powerful position.

____

But what he had now in his possession may tip the balance in their favour.

____

Taking out his own phone, he made a call and arranged a meeting.

____

**oOo**

____

Several hours later, Savas opened his eyes, and got to his feet.

____

**oOo**

____

**Villa Gul**

____

His voice made her jump.

____

“Baby food! You’ve been feeding me baby food?!” Athos said from the doorway, watching her prepare his “lunch.”

____

He was on his feet for the first time, leaning against the doorframe to the kitchen.

__He was dressed, his hair mussed and he was looking indignant; one eyebrow raised imperiously._ _

____

“You bet I have!” Constance countered, recovering.

____

She picked a can up and waved it at him.

____

“And what would Sir like for lunch – Macaroni Cheese, or Cauliflower Dream?”

____

“Show me the menu,” he growled. “I am in the mood for al a carte.”

____

“Certainly, Sir – but first, the chef needs a hug,” and she threw herself at him, thrilled that he was on his feet; ever mindful of his cast.

____

**oOo**

____

**The next day – A boat trip**

____

It was gloriously sunnty as Aramis and Constance walked down to the pretty harbour where a small red and white boat awaited them. They had dressed as tourists; Aramis in white shirt and jeans with a cream panama hat; two leather bracelets and his gold crucifix completed his look. Constance wore a yellow sundress and wide brimmed white hat. They carried a picnic hamper, which they loaded onto the boat.

____

“Are you sure you can sail this thing?” Constance asked, dubiously.

____

Aramis put his hand on his heart.

____

“I know,” she said laughing, clambering on board, “I wound you.”

____

He jumped in and turned to look up and her; offering his hand. Still dubious, she took it and he helped her onboard, settling her at the stern.

____

Aramis turned the key and fired the motor and they pulled out into the turquoise sea and headed along the cliffs.

____

They sailed along the coastline, hugging the shore, their rendezvous some fifteen miles from Savigerme, toward Gocek.

____

Constance handed Aramis a bottle of lemonade from the basket and turned her face into the sun, enjoying the feeling of the warm breeze against her skin. She felt herself relaxing after the trauma of the last few days.

____

It seemed Aramis was relaxing too, his eyes focussed ahead, but with a soft expression on his face.

____

“My Grandfather had a boat,” he murmured a little while later as the boat bounced softly on the swell.

____

Constance smiled in encouragement, and he continued.

____

“As a boy, he would take me out with him, and we would fish the coastline. By then, of course, he was quite old. 

____

"He had the biggest hands,“ he said softly, looking down at his own lean hands; remembering.

____

“But he could mend a fishing net with all the grace of the best seamstress. He wore a gold ring with a black stone, and as he worked on the nets, it would catch the light ... My best memory was when we had been out fishing at dawn and had a wonderful catch; sardines, squid and lobster. We pulled into a tiny harbour; I had never seen it before but he obviously knew it. And everyone knew him. Everyone wanted to say hello, and he had a word for everyone. _This is my grandson,_ he would say proudly, many times. We sat and cooked some of the sardines on a grill in the open air on top of the harbour wall. He always smelled of cherries; he smoked a pipe and that was his tobacco of choice.”

____

Aramis was in his stride now, wanting to tell Constance about the old man who had had such an impact on his early life.

____

She smiled at the look on his face.

____

“He would have been proud of you,” she said, “and your own ability with a needle!”

____

Aramis smiled.

____

“He never lived to see me become a doctor.”

____

He shook himself then, and made the effort to smile brightly.

____

“He wore an old gold pocket watch on a chain across his waistcoat. I have it now.

____

“I looked for that little harbour after he died. I remembered a church with blue and white tiled domes. The town had cobbled streets and the church was at the top of a hill. And one day, I found it, and I was able to light a candle in that church for him. It was called, “La Mare de Deu de Consol.”

____

He caught her looking at him, her eyebrows raised, wanting a translation.

____

“Our Lady of Solace,” he said. 

____

“Of course, it had changed since I was a boy, but the church was the same.”

____

“That’s beautiful, Aramis,” she said, reaching out and briefly taking his hand.

____

Half an hour later, they rounded the headland and were soon pulling into a secluded bay to the co-ordinates given to them.

____

To the right, were two caves set into an outcrop which abutted the cliff face, and Aramis steered the boat to the cave entrance closest to the beach. After a very tricky few moments, where Constance feared for their safety, they entered, thanks in no small part to the skill of Aramis's steering.

____

Constance recovered her composure as soon as they passed through the entrance, gasping at the blue green shimmer the sea gave to the cave walls. It was suddenly very quiet, save for the sound of water lapping at the rockes, and the drip of moisture from the roof of the cave. Sailing slowly ahead, they heard a rhythmic sound, and rounding a large rock, saw the small wooden boat tethered up ahead, its side bumping into the rock with the swell of the clear green water.

____

“I’m impressed. You found me and you’re on time.”

____

Looking up toward the voice, they both smiled.

____

d’Artagnan was sitting high up on a rock looking down at them.

____

“Your directions were very clear, mon ami,” Aramis said, as d’Artagnan made his way nimbly down to them.

____

Constance was relieved to see him, and gave him a nice welcome.

____

Aramis wanted to know how he was, and checked him over with a practised eye; wondering where he had been since they parted a few days before. 

____

d’Artagnan, shrugged him off in amusement, and then handed him Erogan’s cell phone.

____

“Give this to Albie. I’ve a feeling there will be something interesting on there.”

____

“Whose is it?”

____

“It’s Erogan’s. He’s dead.”

____

“How!?” Constance gasped.

____

“Murdered by his brother, who, it seems, wants to take over the network.”

____

“It’s like The Godfather!” Constance muttered.

____

d’Artagnan laughed;

____

“Behind us,” he indicated, waving his arm, “there is a further cave system. It’s not on the tourist trail. The tides make any attempt at entry unpredictable and this headland has lots of rocks that are often hidden from view at high tide. But if you know these waters, or were perhaps born here, you may want to take a chance. And if you can pass as a local fisherman, so much the better.”

____

“Are we safe here?” Constance asked him, looking at the water around her nervously.

____

“At the moment,” he smiled mischievously and she growled at him.

____

“And if you know what you are doing,” he smiled, pleased with himself.

____

Despite her annoyance at him, Constance thought how good it was to see this side of him again after the past few days, and his previous harrowing calls.

____

“You’re enjoying this,” she scolded him.

____

He pulled out the sheaf of papers he had taken from Erogan’s study and handed them over to Aramis. 

____

“Keep those safe, Aramis; Millington will be very interested in them,” he said, as Aramis flicked through them.

____

“They are planning to open up this whole cave structure as a new smuggling route,” Aramis murmured.

____

“Looks like it,” d’Artagnan agreed, “those are the plans. If they succeed, that part of their operation will be virtually undetectable.”

____

“Tell Porthos and Athos that Polat Hamdi was the one who betrayed them to Bulut that morning.” he said. “He won’t be betraying anyone else,” he added cryptically.

____

“The accountant?” Aramis said, looking surprised.

____

“Aren’t the quiet ones the worst?” d’Artagnan agreed, grinning.

____

“No chance of that with you,” Constance muttered, looking around the cave and back to the weapon strapped to his shoulder beneath his jacket. She had never seen him in the field before, only on leave. She had never allowed herself to think too much about what he was doing the rest of the time. However, she could not really say she did not like this side of him.

____

d’Artagnan laughed. That might be a discussion for the future, but he caught the look in her eye and the smile curling her lips and knew she was learning to be a little easier with his profession. Constance was a woman who knew her own mind and she had known what he did for a living from the day Porthos introduced them at the Regimental dinner. She knew what they all were capable of when push came to shove.

____

“If Porthos and Athos hadn’t talked to Hamdi that morning,” d’Artagnan was saying, “I would not have found Metin and been able to track him to Erogan’s place,” he said.

____

“And I wouldn’t have found this,” he said, “it was in Hamdi’s briefcase.” He brought out one more sheet of paper and handing it over. This time Constance took it and scanned it.

__“These are bank accounts,” she said, scanning the list._ _

____

“Thought so - are you sure?” d’Artagnan brightened, looking at her.

____

“I live in Geneva, I know a Swiss bank account when I see one,” she said, loftily, as she passed the sheet to Aramis to add to the rest of the evidence.

____

“Millington will be happy to have that too,” d’Artagnan said.

____

We'll see to it, my friend," said Aramis.

____

“Have you got any food in there,” d'Artagnan asked suddenly, eyeing the picnic basket in their boat.

____

“What kind of girl do you think I am, coming on a picnic without food? Anyway, it’s a good cover if anyone else comes in here,” she said, busy pulling out boxes of food. They both exchanged a look over her head.

____

“I saw that,” she said.

____

“And ...” she paused for effect, pulling out a small brown bottle...

____

“Athos sent this.” 

____

It was a bottle of almond liqueur, a particular favourite and past addiction of d’Artagnan’s.

____

“I got it in the village this morning. He said not to make a habit of it again.”

____

“He’s a God among men,” d’Artagan said, taking the bottle with a whoop.

____

__“That he is,” Constance said softly._ _

____

It was a treat to sit quietly and enjoy their impromptu picnic, listening to the waves gently lapping against the rocks inside the shimmering cave. 

____

All too soon, it was over and d’Artagnan stood and dusted himself off.

____

“Time to go,” he said to them. He pulled Constance into his arms and kissed her. Untying his boat, he jumped aboard, carefully stowing his favourite liqueur under the seat. He fired the outboard motor into life and gave them both an eloquent bow.

____

Aramis returned it with flair and Constance laughed, bobbing a quick curtsy and they made their way to their own boat.

____

“What are you going to do now?” Aramis asked him, as he helped Constance back into their boat.

____

“I have a date at the Blue Oasis.”

____

“Be careful, love,” Constance said, “Athos and Porthos were attacked after they left that place.”

____

“I only need a few moments,” he shouted, with a final wave as his boat pulled out into the current and off toward the cave entrance, the sound of the engine bouncing off the walls of the cave.

____

Followed a few moments later by Aramis and a very nervous Constance.

____

**oOo**

____

**Villa Gul: Athos’s room**

____

They hadn’t been back at the villa for long before Aramis appeared.

____

“Where’s Clarisse?”

____

“Haven’t seen her all day,” Porthos replied, pouring wine with one hand and eating a bread stick with the other.

____

“I think she’s gone; there’s nothing in her room,” Aramis replied.

____

“What? Where?!” demanded Porthos, still unsure of her motives.

____

“I have an idea she knows more than she’s letting on,” Constance said.

____

“You think she’s plannin’ something?”

____

“Who knows, but she’s been here before. She knows these people. She could be heading into danger,” Athos replied.

____

“She’s a fool,” Porthos growled, taking another angry bite of his bread stick.

____

“No, never that,” Athos said quietly.

____

**To be continued ... >**

____


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Clarisse, what were you thinking ...?
> 
> Aramis is not happy. What is d'Artagnan up to now? And has anyone got any chocolate peanuts?

Clarisse had slipped back to her hotel easily enough without being seen. Aramis and Constance had left early to meet d’Artagnan and she had then watched as Porthos accompanied Athos on a steady stroll toward the town. She had taken the opportunity to arrange to meet Doruk, and, taking one of the SUV’s, had driven through the bright afternoon sunshine; which only served to darken her mood. 

Now, as she took a shower, their meeting was two hours away. Her brief meeting with him in the basement had brought back memories for her and she realised she had still been drawn to him. Now though, as the warm water poured over her she was unsure, she was crippled with doubt, after Athos had revealed that it was Doruk who had been his jailer. 

d’Artagnan was closing in, but she had no doubt that soon, their location would be known to these men; if it was not already. She had played her last card to Doruk. Time was running out. Her packed suitcase was sitting on the floor beside the bed; she was ready to leave with Doruk if that was what it took. Dressing quickly, she paced the room, unsure of what she was doing, but sure she had no alternative.

**oOo**

**Villa Gul**

As Aramis and Porthos prepared a late lunch, they had nodded when Athos drifted into his bedroom to take a short nap after his earlier walk with Porthos. When he did not appear when he was called, Constance went to see if all was well. 

His bedroom was empty, the door to the garden open.

Athos had left a note, telling them not to worry, and that he wouldn’t be long. 

“How the hell did he get past us?!!” Aramis hissed, screwing up the note and tossing it angrily aside.

Porthos started to laugh.

“Cos he’s a sneaky bugger.”

“He’s a fool!” Constance muttered.

“He’s many things, but he’s no fool,” Porthos said, casting her a cheeky grin.

Aramis sighed a weary sigh.

****

Later, in Clarisse’s hotel room, the soft knock on the door alerted her and she stood, her hand moving instinctively and pushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Taking a deep breath, she threw open the door with the confidence she did not feel.

It was not Doruk.

There, in the corridor, staring at her with those damn green eyes, was Athos.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he said quietly.

An involuntary shiver went down her spine as the adrenaline that had been coursing through her veins for the last half hour as she waited for Doruk began to dissipate. She quickly looked at her watch before reaching out to pull him into the room.

He evaded her with a neat side step and strode past her, his back ramrod straight; his tension almost palpable.

Sighing, her head dropped and she closed the door softly.

Turning back into the room, she recovered some of her swagger and faced him defiantly.

They had half an hour as most, before Doruk came; hopefully alone. She could then finally end this. She could make arrangements with Doruk to give him what she had, and they could all go their separate ways.

She now had to get Athos to leave.

_When all she wanted was for him to stay._

This damn man would be her undoing. She could feel her pulse fluttering in her throat as she faced him; her unwelcome, welcome intrusion.

Half an hour.

He was standing there, impassively.

She sighed.

“I’m waiting for Doruk,” she replied. 

“You know him.”

It wasn’t a question; but watching, waiting for her reply, he knew for sure. Doruk was the “nice time” she had had before her heart had been broken. 

“We have .... history. I liked him. I thought we had something,” she said quietly.

Athos did not react to that. It was none of his business, and he sensed she would resent any comment he made. So he settled for keeping her on track. 

She told him then that she had a final piece of evidence. A recording of Villiers and Marcheaux incriminating themselves, with more evidence in that recording than that which had sent him to prison. At tremendous risk, she had left a phone, set to record, in Villiers desk and had struck gold.

“Why did you not give it to the police at the time?” Athos asked.

“Insurance! Did you honestly expect a man like that would not hold grudges?”

“And you are meeting Doruk to take him to this evidence? It is madness.”

“To get him off your backs!!!” she cried. “To get Villiers off our backs,” she sighed. 

“To get Villiers off _my back,"_ she said, finally, crumpling under his steady gaze. “He thinks you and Porthos are dead, so where does that leave me?!”

Athos stepped closer, his glare softening.

“Doruk is not the man you remember,” he said. “And Bulut is not the psychopath of the family. Believe me. I know one when I see one; and when I have had the opportunity to spend quality time with one such as Doruk. Bulut is a vicious, murdering thug, but Doruk has a completely different mindset.”

“You might be wrong,” she said sullenly, a part of her still clinging to the memory of the man she once knew.

Athos understood she was reluctant to abandon her plan but what she was doing was foolish in the extreme.

“Doruk left bread on the table in the basement; but no water. Out of reach, of course. But the body needs water more than food and by leaving food, he was telling me the situation was hopeless. He is the psychopath, Clarisse.”

She stared at him. What had happened to Doruk to turn him like this? This was not the man she had met before. He wasn’t even involved in the family business when she first met him. But she could not dispute the evidence as she stood under Athos’s gaze.

“Oh, God, what have I done?!” she finally said, turning her back on him.

“You have put him one step behind us,” Athos replied, quietly.

She whirled around, her dismay now evident. 

“But that’s alright,” he said, seeing her expression.

“How is that alright?!” she said in exasperation at his even tone.

“Because we are one step ahead.”

He had been cradling his plastered wrist but now he reached out and took her hand.

“Where is this evidence?” he asked, gently.

“In a safety deposit box.” 

He looked patiently at her, waiting.

“In Monte Carlo.”

“Of course,” he sighed. “Where else.”

She let go of his hand and flounced over to sit on the bed defensively. 

“And Monte Carlo will be so much more clement than Turkey. Quite frankly, I can’t wait to leave,” he was saying. 

She raised a dubious eyebrow at him, surprised at his attitude, before remembering his quiet strength as he faced Marcheaux last year.

Distracted, her eyes slid down his arm.

“Did you drive here with that cast on?”

“Needs must,” he replied.

“Idiot,” she huffed.

He held out his hand.

“Come back with me,” he said gently.

She looked at her watch. Ten minutes left.

She sighed.

**oOo**

After Clarisse had grabbed her suitcase, they headed to Reception to check her out of the hotel, with a request that the car rental firm be contacted to collect the SUV that Clarisse had used. They headed back to the Villa in the remaining vehicle. She had insisted on driving; pushing him unceremoniously into the passenger seat and handing him a bottle of water once she was in the driving seat.

“Drink.”

“I’m fine.”

_“Drink!”_

Once on the road, Athos called Aramis and brought him up to speed, telling them all to pack and get ready to leave. After ending the call, he looked sideways at her.

“That went well,” he muttered.

“Don’t tell me; he wasn’t impressed with your one-man mission.”

“You could say that.”

**oOo**

Forty minutes later, the SUV pulled up behind the villa.

Once inside, Athos allowed Aramis to pull him into his room.

He stood quietly with his head tilted back, allowing his friend to pull his bottom eyelid down and check the pale lining that would indicate ...who knows what?

He watched impassively as Aramis lifted his hand and pinched the skin to check its elasticity.

He watched the urgency of his movements.

“Aramis.”

His eyes tracked his silent friend’s face as his other hand was swiftly raised, and the plaster cast checked.

Aramis continued his determined inspection.

Pinching his thumb next, and moving to his index finger.

“Can you feel that?” Aramis asked quietly, still not looking at him.

“Yes.”

Aramis let go of his hand and turned away.

“Aramis.”

But Aramis only pulled a chair forward and Athos allowed himself to be guided down.

“Aramis ...” Athos said softly, looking up into his friend’s shuttered face, as Aramis slid the blood pressure cuff up his arm.

“I’m sorry.”

Aramis did not react; checking the reading and deflating the cuff.

As he made to turn, Athos caught his wrist.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, barely audible.

Aramis raised his head and looked at him then, and Athos caught his breath at the look in his eyes. And he understood.

“Aramis, I am not Thomas.”

For Aramis still bore the emotional scars of failing to save Thomas in Afghanistan.

Aramis stared at him.

“We need to go,” he said, all business.

Athos watched as Aramis stowed his medical gear.

“Are we good?” Athos asked.

Athos’s question hung in the air between them, a great dam waiting to burst ...

And then Aramis sighed, and his shoulders relaxed.

“We’re good,” he smiled gently, hands resting on his bag; still not making eye contact.

He turned to go then, leaving Athos sitting ...

“Porthos packed your case, and Constance saved your meal,” he said, as he opened the door.

Athos smiled at his retreating back; point taken.

There were more plans to be made now, once Athos had apologised to the others for bailing out on them. They needed to get Clarisse to her bank in Monte Carlo before Doruk could get to her and force her hand.

Athos was straight on his phone looking up flights to Nice; the nearest international airport to Monaco.

“What about d’Artagnan?” asked Constance, as she wheeled her suitcase into the kitchen.

“He is a big boy; he still has work to do here,” Athos answered.

“And he will find us,” he added, looking up at them all standing around him.

“Hmmm, flights are regular, and the airport is only a short distance away; all is good,” he said to himself; more relaxed than they had seen him for a while.

“Have you ever been to Monte Carlo?” Porthos asked Athos, watching him efficiently booking their flights.

“I moored there once,” he replied without looking up, but did not say more.

Porthos and Aramis shared a look.

Their brother never ceased to surprise them.

**oOo**

**The Blue Oasis**

d’Artagnan slipped into a seat at the bar.

Beside him was the leader of the men he had seen, sixty feet below him in the warehouse. A man who had overseen the torture o f his comrades, whose screams still woke him at night.

_Bulut._

He was aware of the sheer physicality of the man. Where he himself was tall and lean, Bulut was broad and muscular. 

He was very similar in appearance to his father, Erogan, he thought.

He had given Erogan’s phone to Aramis, along with the details of bank accounts and the plans he had found for the cave structures leading from the bay many miles inland.

He had one more thing to deliver.

Metaphorically speaking, he was about to light the fuse and stand back to await the explosion.

Bulut stood, towering over him. He walked behind him to the toilet. d’Artagnan downed the rest of his drink and waited until he heard Bulut’s heavy footsteps retreating through the door.

When Bulut slid into his seat once more, d’Artagnan was gone.

But, in front of Bulut on the bar top, there was a brown envelope with his name on it.

He looked around.

Curious, but seeing no-one, Bulut picked up the envelope and headed to the back room.

**oOo**

**Albie - later that week**

Porthos had sent Erogan’s cell phone to Albie by special delivery this time. Sure enough, it was encrypted. Peering at the computer screen now Albie was busy once more deciphering and searching for patterns within the coding.

This one had been easy. He found a number and called Porthos. 

“It recurs. It’s well hidden, but once the pattern is broken down, it’s there, in a specific location.” 

“What location?”

Albie said the name of an area, within one mile of which sat a specific maximum security prison.

The prison where George Villiers was currently residing.

Then, he gave him a number.

When Porthos rang it later, it was answered by a female voice, giving the name of a business.

Porthos was his usual charming self and made up some reason for the call and eventually the receptionist gave the address of the company. It was a Barristers Chambers in Lincoln’s Inn, London. When he looked the firm’s distinguished employees up, one of them was George Villier's lawyer. 

It appeared that his lawyer had been in contact with a Turkish crime lord’s family on a regular basis.

**To be continued ...**


	18. Chapter 18

**A Confrontation:**

Bulut stood in front of Metin in the garden of his Uncle’s house.

He produced the letters he had read that morning, left for him on a bar top. They were written in his mother’s hand. Addressed to his father, Erogan, and dated three years previous, just before she had died.

They told of an assault.

When she was a young woman, Metin had, she wrote, after months of harassment, finally forced himself on her. 

Doruk was, she said, Metin’s son. The product of that violent night when she had been powerless against her husband’s brother.

It made so much sense.

Metin, taking more interest in Doruk than in his other nephew, himself, two years older. Metin funding Doruk’s private education; sending him to Oxford to do his degree. But also, his mother's coolness toward Doruk; or was it Doruk's aloofness to them all?

His thoughts spun wildly through his head.

_Why had Erogan accepted it? Why had he let Metin get away with it – never confronted him_

_Why had Bulut and Doruk been led to believe they were full brothers, the sons of Erogan?_

These were the questions flying through Bulut’s mind as he had driven blindly to his Uncle’s house.

_How had his mother taken that lack of response from her husband? Why would she have accepted his silence on something so terrible?_

_What was it that led them to adopt this conspiracy of silence!_

_And how does he feel about his “brother” now? His brother who looks so much like his “uncle” Metin? Those features so much more refined than Bulut’s?_

Bulut had gone from the Blue Oasis to confront Erogan.

Tearing through his house, he had found him dead in his study. He could not mourn a man who had betrayed his mother in such a way. This man on the floor before him was a stranger.

But, if someone had discovered this and had passed on this information – Metin would know the truth of it. He must have been a part of that decision to remain silent. That thought was what brought him to be standing in front of Metin now, the letters crumpled in his hand.

He had been left this information at the Blue Oasis – but the bartender was one of his own men, put there specifically as a look-out. Bulut had returned to the bar to question the bartender who had described the people in the bar that day and one single European male had stood out. He had even sat next to him. 

The confrontation with Metin had gone badly. Not one for finesse, he had soon lost his temper. Metin was his usual cool self, which only added to Bulut’s anger. He wanted to know why Metin had betrayed Erogan, his father, in that way. Did family mean nothing to him?

Metin had merely shrugged at his questions and accusations.

Bulut's mother, Marianna, was only a young girl when Erogan brought her home to his village. She had loved Erogan, he knew. But Metin was smooth, persuasive, and insistent. It was he who had persuaded Erogan to give Doruk a private education. Perhaps that was the price Erogan and Marianna paid. Perhaps it was a bribe too good to miss when the country was still recovering from its turbulent history. Or perhaps Marianna just wanted some space from Doruk, a constant reminder of that night? Bulut’s head was spinning.

He may have bought that argument, had Metin not become bored and blamed Marianna, saying she had approached _him_ , tired of Erogan's bullish ways. Bulut had snapped when he had smoothly called her a whore, and it was _then_ in that momet, that he had grieved for his dead father, still lying cold on his study floor. It was then that he had bulldozed into Metin, and had pummelled his facre into a bloody mess. He had then caved his head in with a statuette that he had always admired as a boy; that of the Turkish Moon God, Ay Dede, the symbol of coldness; a symbolism he found satisfying.

Bulut’s family was imploding around him. Erogan and Metin were both dead. Now he wanted to speak to his brother – half brother – Doruk.

**oOo**

Doruk - looking so like Metin now that Bulut knew the truth - merely laughed.

“Of course I knew,” Doruk had said, unconcerned by the death of the two senior members of his family; his father and his uncle; whichever way round you looked at it. 

His lack of emotion or remorse was the mark of a true psychopath. And Bulut knew then, that although he was the eldest, it would be Doruk who was now in charge.

The way was clear now, Doruk said, to take control of the whole operation; get rid of Villiers, and develop the network. He would not be in debt to Villiers as his family had been since this started; jumping to his orders.

For all his anger, Bulut was not a fool. He was not about to kill his “brother” while he was still useful. He had no desire to deal with Villiers. And so, an uneasy alliance was born. 

Doruk had left de la Fere dead in the basement in the safe house, and Bulut had killed two of the Special Forces agents in the warehouse in Ortaca, and left du Vallon for dead. The missing agent was still at large, but someone had turned up at the Blue Oasis and left the incriminating letter for Bulut. Someone had destroyed the compound and caused them untold damage. It could only have been him. He needed to be found. He was unaware that Erogan's phone and their development plans had been appropriated by d'Artagnan, together with the paperwork from Polat Hamdi's briefcase.

Doruk had been surprised to see Clarisse again and had wondered initially if she was working for Villiers, but she had offered evidence against him and had arranged a meeting at her hotel. However, she was not there when he had come to call at the arranged time.

Asking for her at her hotel reception, he was told she had checked out. When further questioned, rather charmingly by Doruk, the receptionist told him she had left with a European man. Who was wearing a cast on his wrist.

Clarisse had made a fool of him and de la Fere was still alive.

He needed that evidence. He needed an end to Villiers’ control. He needed to kill the bitch and de la Fere.

There was only one place they would be going now; to retrieve the evidence.

He would set a watch on the major airports in Turkey.

He would find them.

**oOo**

**Monaco -Monte Carlo:**

Located on the French Riviera, Monaco has a population of just over thirty eight thousand and an area of 0.78 square miles. Known as the playground for the rich and famous, it has more millionaires than Zurich or Geneva. Its most populous quarter is Monte Carlo; one mile square, which itself has two thousand millionaires and around fifty billionaires. To be respectable, a yacht has to cost a minimum of fifty million pounds and one hundred million is becoming the norm. The credit crunch has not yet found Monaco.

Perched on a rock overlooking the harbour is the Royal Palace, home of the Grimaldi’s. Monaco is a magical place, once ruled over by a fairytale couple; a prince and a Hollywood princess. 

In the 1630’s, Honore II, self-styled “Prince” of Monaco sought French protection against Spanish forces and in 1642, he was received at the court of Louis XIII. Thus, the princes of Monaco became obligated to the French kings whilst remaining sovereign princes. The principality remained a protectorate of France until the French Revolution. It had preserved its independence to date due to the wise guidance of its prince.

On three sides, Monaco is bordered by France’s Maritimes Mountains, a mountain range in the south-western part of the Alps; the remaining side bordering the Mediterranean Sea.

Monaco is famous for its Grand Prix circuit, which snakes through the city streets of Monte Carlo and La Condamine, incorporating tight corners, narrow streets, many elevation changes, and a twisting tunnel, which emerges onto the famous harbour; home to some of the most beautiful and expensive yachts in the world.

**oOo**

The four friends and one female companion stepped off the plane in Nice, the nearest international airport, with some relief. They hired a people-carrier at the airport, loaded up their bags, and with Aramis driving, took the picturesque twisting single lane coastal road; a forty minute drive into Monaco.

The crystal clear sea stretched out below them on the right, and tall rocky hills on their left. The road took them through the stunning village of Villefranche-Sur-Mer with views of Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat, a peninsula that juts out into the Mediterranean. In places, the roadway carved through the grey granite rock; the approach becoming greener as they approached Monte Carlo, the mountains in the near distance.

After the heat of Turkey, Monaco was much more comfortable, but that did not stop Aramis pressing a bottle of water into Athos’s hand as they drove. Athos dutifully opened it and drank half of it down. Plane travel was dehydrating in itself, but the Monaco sunshine would only add to it.

“I hope you are going to relax about this, Aramis,” Athos said, when the bottle was empty.

“I will, after I have taken your blood pressure,” Aramis had answered, eyes on the road, half smile on his face. He was enjoying himself.

Athos heard a distinct stifled laugh from the three in the back.

“Children,” he muttered, which only made them worse.

Ahead of them lay the bustling principality of Monte Carlo and they slowed as they entered the winding roadway, which flowed between buildings, under palm trees and past open squares, filled with shoppers.

They slipped in behind some very beautiful supercars, which were prowling around the streets, much to the delight of the many tourists, many of whom were filming on phones and video cameras.

Porthos was beside himself in delight as he named every one.

Soon, they were making their way to their Hotel.

So far, so good.

**To be continued ...**


	19. Chapter 19

**Hotel Hermitage, Square Beaumarchais**

After the rigours of Turkey, Athos led his three friends into the calming atmosphere of the five star Hotel Hermitage, in the centre of Monte Carlo. They had dropped Clarisse off at her own apartment block, a short walk away.

The hotel was built in 1890 in the “Belle Époque” style; overlooking the harbour and the Mediterranean Sea. It is classified as a monument, and is part of the elite palaces in Monaco. It has direct underground access to one of the most prestigious spas in Europe.

Athos explained that in 1874, wine cellars were hewn from the rock beneath the hotel, and over the years they had extended many times to encompass the nearby Hotel de Paris. During the Second World War, the cellar master had used empty bottles to wall up the hallway leading to the cellar to ensure it was protected during the Nazi occupation. It was never discovered, and the oldest bottle stored there is a vintage from 1800. Prince Rainier and Princess Grace had celebrated their twentieth wedding anniversary within is prestigious confines.

Constance was like a small child as she took in the magnificent elegance of the historic luxury hotel.

“It’s too much,” she breathed to Athos, as they all checked in. 

“No, it is not,” he said as he took her hand and moved her and the others towards the lifts, behind the porters who were busily conveying their luggage up to their third floor suites.

Opening her door, he took her suitcase from the porter with his good hand, passing him folded money with his plastered one, and placed her suitcase on the bed. He watched as she moved around the room, her fingers flowing lightly over the fabrics of bedding and curtains.

Throwing open the doors to the balcony, she stepped outside, gazing at the bustle and the views of the Mediterranean below.

“Settle in,” Athos said behind her, “We are meeting in the bar at six. Clarisse will be joining us.”

She sobered and he caught her look.

“We have to make plans, and we may not have much time.”

“Alright,” she said quietly. She brightened then.

“Thank you, Athos.”

“You are welcome,” he said fondly, as she kissed his cheek.

“Six pm,” he called out as he opened the door and left her alone.

He had somewhere to be in the interim.

Later, at six p.m. he met them in the Lobby piano bar, the Lumin.

When Athos appeared he was sporting a new fibreglass cast on his wrist. He and Aramis had gone to a private clinic in order to discard the old one. The x-ray that had been taken had shown that the bones were healing well. This cast was so much lighter, and left more space for his fingers. He had tested it at the late lunch they had both shared by successfully holding the glass of champagne that Aramis bought him to celebrate.

“This is civilised,” Aramis said happily, settling into one of the cream leather chairs in the corner of the bar they now inhabited. Like the others, he had been extremely relieved to leave Turkish soil.

Athos was pleased to see they were beginning to relax. Still waiting for Clarisse, he ordered drinks and booked a table for dinner; taking command once more, ensuring they were comfortable.

“You don’t ‘ave to do this,” Porthos said, looking around his impressive surroundings.

“I do,” Athos answered, holding Porthos’s gaze, a look that brooked no argument.

Aramis raised his glass.

“To peace,” he said.

They all clinked glasses.

“What are you all drinking to?” asked Clarisse as she swept into the bar and sauntered over.

**oOo**

Clarisse de Brueil, as she called herself here, had chosen Monte Carlo as her domicile for one very good reason; its reputation as a tax haven. Home to over three hundred thousand bank accounts, protected by the jurisdiction’s very strict secrecy laws, she had added her own bank account to that number. 

She had considered the Cayman Islands after she left London, but the delights of Monte Carlo were a stronger attraction. Thus she had purchased a very nice apartment in a pastel coloured block on the hill overlooking the harbour, and obtained a safety deposit box for her gems and other precious items.

She had also doubled her bank balance in a few short weeks, thanks to the expertise and attentions of a very willing Duke, who initiated her into the intricacies of the famous gaming tables at the Casino. She had finally managed to shake him off, and was now happily settled in her new home, unless the call of the odd extra curricula activity called her; she was still a jewel thief at heart.

**oOo**

At dinner that first night, Athos had politely declined Constance’s offer to cut up his steak for him, giving her one of his glares; much to the amusement of Aramis and Porthos.

It hadn’t stopped her writing a message on his new cast, which he had allowed her to do as long as it was “a testament of good taste.” She had written “Our voice will go with you,” and he had found himself incredibly touched, and had squeezed her hand.

Clarisse had rolled her eyes, and downed her brandy; but Athos suspected that even she, like him, a bastion of shuttered emotions, was touched herself, as she did hold his gaze a little longer than she normally did, before looking away. Sentimentality was alien to her, but, on occasion, she let her guard down briefly. He could not help but be delighted when she did.

Athos looked around the table, taking in his dinner companions. It was good to relax in each other’s company once more, in such beautiful surroundings.

He knew that this peace was only temporary, but tonight, they were together, and it touched his heart.

Clarisse’s evidence was in her safety deposit box. They would retrieve it in the morning when the bank opened, and forward it on to Edward Millington. After a lovely evening, and mindful of their task, they eventually said their good nights at midnight and retired to their own rooms.

Athos was walking Clarisse home to her nearby apartment. They were walking along the front, chatting idly.

“What’s happening with your practise in London?” she asked, thinking about the time they had been away, longer now than intended.

“I have a head therapist, Simon, who is looking after it. He is due a promotion and this is the ideal opportunity to offer one. Perhaps, even, a partnership.”

“What about a partnership with Constance?”

He smiled.

“We would kill each other within a month,” he said. 

“Yes, I suppose you would,” she laughed.

They fell into a comfortable silence as they approached her building.

Suddenly, Athos stopped her, his hand on her arm.

Ahead, Doruk was outside her building, talking to the uniformed concierge, showing him a photograph.

“So soon,” she breathed.

Athos looked at her and shoved his phone in her hand.

“Get Porthos,” he said urgently.

She paused briefly, looking at him, and at that unguarded moment, Doruk looked across and saw them. His hand went briefly to the inside of his jacket, before he seemed to realise where he was, and he turned quickly on his heel and disappeared around the side of the building.

“Underground car park,” she said, while searching through Athos’s contacts for Porthos. 

She looked up at him, seeing he was torn between going and staying.

“Go!” she said, punching a number into the phone; “I’ve got this.”

He had a brief image of her doing that in the basement in Turkey; before giving her arm a squeeze and following Doruk.

“Mind your arm!” she called after him, and then she was talking on his phone, moving down the street.

Athos rounded the side of the building, and found himself in a narrow street, lit by a streetlight attached to the adjacent building. Ahead was the electronic shuttered entrance to the underground garage, only raised when a valet approached with a resident’s car no doubt. As he approached, someone came out of the door next to the shutter, and he caught the door and slipped inside.

It was a staircase. He started to ascend, before looking down into the stairwell. There was another door. He had a choice. He continued to ascend, climbing to the fourth floor, where he knew Clarisse’s apartment was. When he reached it, the door was firmly shut, with no visible lock, save for a keypad which was the only way to gain admittance. Doruk would not have gone this way.

He turned quickly and headed back down toward the other door in the stairwell.

**oOo**

Reaching the bottom, he looked through the door and saw a valet, parking a black Lamborghini Gallardo. To the left, he saw the shutter was up now. He stayed where he was; not knowing if the valet would choose to exit under the shutter, or come through the door he was currently obstructing. He held his breath.

Unfortunately, Doruk was also watching, eyeing the Lamborghini. The valet was no match for him, as he moved toward the exit. He was clubbed to the ground, falling beside a parked car, out of view. Athos launched himself through the door, but Doruk has melted away behind a row of pillars. 

Cautious now, unarmed, Athos walked slowly toward the pillars.

There was no-one there. 

Before he could turn around, he was slammed from behind, and held, face first into the wall.

All the air left his lungs as he heard a familiar grunt and realised, too late, that it was Savas behind him.

**To be continued ...**


	20. Chapter 20

Savas pushed Athos’s face into the wall.

He was pulled back momentarily, and he dragged in a ragged breath; before being shoved back into the wall, as Savas kicked his feet apart brutally. Athos hissed as his cheekbone scraped along the brickwork. He locked his knees as he caught sight of his cast above his head and focussed on Constance’s written words of solidarity. He feared his arm, in its unnatural position, would be put out of joint with the pressure from behind as the air left his lungs for a second time. He was pressed once more with such force his vision started to cloud and black inky spots began to merge together.

Everything that had happened in the basement came crashing into his consciousness as Athos grunted and tried to struggle; but was hampered by the cast on his arm, and the weight at his back.

Savas pressed his body up against Athos, and Athos was suddenly helpless. He could picture the open cavernous mouth, devoid of tongue, and the wild-eyed look of a madman. He could feel and smell the foul breath on his neck as Savas’s arm snaked once more around Athos’s waist and Athos could not move, could not throw his head back, nor kick behind him; panic started to rise.

He was just bracing himself to attempt to throw his plastered arm back into Savas’s face, knowing the man would barely react, when Savas suddenly grunted and went noisily limp, before falling at his feet. The pressure suddenly eased, but Athos was frozen in place; adrenaline pumping through his veins, making him shake involuntarily. He pulled in a shuddering breath, and cast a look over his shoulder; 

Porthos was standing there in Savas’s place.

He actually winked at him.

“He liked you, didn’t he?” Porthos said, simply.

“It would seem so,” Athos sighed, turning to face him. He reached out and laid his palm on Porthos’s chest in simple gratitude.

Porthos pulled him over the dead man into a brief hug; silently acknowledging the toll it had taken.

“You’ll be ‘aving nightmares,” Porthos muttered, shoving the body aside with a firm push of his foot.

“If I do, I will call Constance. She specialises in nightmares,” Athos replied, lifting his hand to tentatively touch his grazed cheek.

Porthos turned him then, and gently pushed him behind a pillar, as he heaved Sava’s body into the shadows. Looking up at Athos, he answered his silent question;

“He won’t be botherin’ anyone else.”

“Good to hear,” Athos murmured.

Just then, the roar of an engine alerted them to the black Lamborghini reversing, before it surged forward, toward the open garage exit.

“Dammit all to Hell!”Athos shouted.

Before they could react further, they heard a familiar voice behind them, and saw Clarisse leaning on a red top of the range BMW M6, casually waving a bunch of car keys at them.

“What are you waiting for?!” she said smoothly, as she threw Athos her keys.

“And mind the damn car!” she muttered as she slid gracefully into the passenger seat.

Porthos squeezed his bulk into the rear of the grand coupe while Athos quickly familiarised himself with the seven-speed dual-clutch gearbox.

“V8 engine?” he asked Clarisse, running his hands over the soft leather rear seat.

“0-62 in 4.2 seconds,” she replied, and he whooped. 

Athos revved the engine, before slipping it fluidly into gear and eased it forward toward the garage exit in pursuit steady pursuit.

Outside in the brightly lit street, in Doruk’s own car, Bulut had seen Porthos leave the Hotel Hermitage and run toward the apartment building. He had thought this one was dead. As his brother gunned the Lamborghini past him, followed by a red BMW with three people inside; Bulut looked back toward the Hotel. 

That left two; one of which was a red haired female he was very, very interested in.

He would pay her a visit first. 

Savas forgotten, he left the car and walked the short distance to the Hotel Hermitage.

It was a simple matter to locate her. Looking up at the hotel facade, she was standing on her balcony, which overlooked the terrace. He quickly worked out which room she was in and made his way quietly across the Lobby and up the service staircase. Working the lock, he quietly opened the door and slipped inside. The room itself was empty, but he saw the balcony doors were ajar, and he could see the outline of her arm as she stood looking out at the sea. She obviously had no knowledge of what was currently happening with her friends. 

He was halfway across the room, when she turned and came back inside; coming face to face with him. She gasped and stood staring at him in shock. She knew who he was from the description Athos and d’Artagnan had both given.

“You!” she breathed, taking in the ugly scar across his face.

He really was as fearsome as they had said, and she felt the panic rise in her, looking wildly around the room. He stood silently, looking at her. She reached to her left and picked up a vase of flowers and threw it at him. He easily dodged it, laughing at her foolishness, as it crashed noisily to the ground.

He snarled at her; a jackal eyeing its prey.

“I am going to enjoy this,” he hissed in a well practised menacing voice.

“So am I,” another voice suddenly said behind him.

Constance breathed a sigh of relief.

d’Artagnan stood in the bathroom doorway, wet from the shower; a towel around his waist. He had surprised her earlier by letting himself into her room; where she found him, lounging on the bed, when she came back from dinner.

Bulut had a wicked looking knife in his hand now, and d’Artagnan was unarmed. However, he did not seem concerned.

“Is your uncle with you?” d’Artagnan said casually.

“Terminated,” Bulut said, flipping the knife over in his hand. d’Artagnan smiled. This one wasn’t as smart as his “half brother.” He couldn’t help boasting; and he was predictable. Bulut had done exactly what he expected him to when he left the envelope. At least now he knew that only Bulut and Doruk remained.

While he was talking, he could see over Bulut’s shoulder that Constance had taken his service gun from the holster he had hung on the chair and was looking at d’Artagan for guidance. With the meerest flick of his head, d’Artagnan gave it, and she brought the gun down onto the back of Bulut’s head. She instantly put her hand to her mouth.

“I’ve killed him!” she cried, stepping forward and dropping the gun.

d’Artagnan dropped down next to Bulut and rolled him over. 

Suddenly, Bulut eyes flew open and he made a grab for Constance’s ankle.

d’Artagnan surged forward and grabbed the gun, bringing it down hard on his forehead.

“Apparently not,” he said, looking up at her. “But I have.”

He stood up and she flew into his arms.

“Better call Aramis; I doubt room service will deal with this,” he said, as they looked down at Bulut’s body.

**oOo**

Meanwhile in the streets below, a black Lamborghini was being followed by a red BMW. In the rear seat of the BMW, Porthos was loving it.

“It’s only the bloody Grand Prix circuit!” he said gleefully.

Athos’s face was set in stone. He just wanted to get the bastard.

Clarisse knew the street layout and was leaning forward, scanning ahead.

“Did you know Ayrton Senna holds the record for the most F1 wins here?! Porthos shouted from the rear seat.

“No, I did not,” replied Athos, his eyes on the car in front. He flicked his eyes at the rear view mirror, catching sight of Porthos’s joyful face.

“This is never going to be the equivalent of his distinguished achievement, Porthos” he said, deftly changing gear. The streets were narrow and there are too many people.

“But we can give it a shot, right?”

“If you wish,” Athos sighed.

Ahead, Doruk changed gears, the air punctuated by the customary loud “woof” of the Lamborghini’s engine; and Athos did the same.

“Here we go,” he murmured.

Behind him in the rear seat, came a loud whoop, and the sound of two large hands being rubbed happily together.

Porthos was incorrigible.

In the passenger seat, Clarisse rolled her eyes.

“Mind the damn car,” she said again.

Above them, d’Artagnan had spotted them from the hotel balcony and soon was joined by Aramis and Constance. There was nothing they could do to help, but it wasn’t every day you got to watch your friends chasing a murderous drug dealer around a world class Grand Prix circuit, under a bright full moon. 

“I’m so glad I’m not in that Lamborghini,” Aramis said, as the BMW slid effortlessly in its wake. He poured a glass of champagne and raised it in salute.

“It’s a bit early to celebrate,” Constance swiped his arm, nearly making him spit it out. But she did turn back then and they all watched as the two cars disappeared into the tunnel toward the harbour.

“I hope he knows what he’s doing,” she muttered.

**To be continued ...**


	21. Chapter 21

The road was not familiar to Athos, but the 3km circuit was well defined. It took weeks to set up the barriers and chicanes of the actual race course but here in the early hours of a late September morning, there were no such delineations.

Someone once said driving this circuit was like riding a bicycle around your lounge.

Save for one place where overtaking was possible, you simply followed the car in front.

Of course, Doruk could head for the mountains but Athos had no desire to follow, should he do that, with Clarisse and Porthos in the car. People had died up there, when they had missed a bend, or simply lost attention. Even the Monaco Royal Family had experienced that kind of loss and he knew that once out of the confines of the town centre, Doruk would be ruthless and unconcerned about putting other drivers or pedestrians at risk. If that was the case, he would not follow.

Athos would not give him that satisfaction.

Doruk was the enemy, and Athos would take him down carefully.

And if his newly-forming plan worked, he would not be implicated.

He would not give Doruk that satisfaction either.

They pulled onto the street, where they took their place amongst other supercars, also doing impressive slow sweeping circuits of the centre. Clarisse pointed out the Lamborghini, three cars in front now, the overhead streetlights reflected in its black gloss paintwork. 

They would have to be quick, as the police force was, by necessity, well manned. His eyes flicked to the many CCTV cameras on the buildings they passed.

Athos anticipated two circuits to see his plan through, but he would see.

Doruk was not concerned by the BMW, three cars behind.

_Earlier, in the late afternoon, he had been surprised at how easily he had seen Clarisse. Cruising around the narrow streets after their arrival, he had directed Bulut past the banks; monuments to the wealth stored in their vaults. Somewhere within one of those vaults was his prize. Next, they sought out the hotels and it was during a pass of the Hotel de Paris that he caught sight of her._

_The wealthy do not tend to walk in Monte Carlo; there were other ways to impress. So she stood out amongst the tourists as she left an apartment block, dressed for the evening. Her head was held high and her back straight. People had parted to let her through, many looking back at someone they think is powerful, perhaps. Mysterious, certainly. That is what she intends, of course. Her arrogance will be her downfall. He found himself caught up in her once again, this woman who swept through all in her path._

_A woman he once thought of like-mind; soon realising she had a humanity that was well hidden; but there, nonetheless. Once realised, she was no use to him; he had cast her aside, knowing her pride would prevent her from making further contact with him._

_When she had reappeared, in the basement, she had feined ruthlessness, flashing anger that de la Fere was dead when she had use of him. He had forgotten how persuasive she could be, and in that moment, looking into her devilish eyes, he had believed her; the moment sweetened by her promise of evidence; proof they were on the same side. She had saved her life in that moment of belief. Until later at the appointed moment at her hotel when he was told that she had gone. Gone, and with the man whose “death” had angered her so; whose “usefulness” to her was a lie, spilled easily from her lips._

_They could not stop, and a collision would have cost him dearly, and when he looked back, she was gone. But he had a location now, and she will no doubt return to that apartment block. One thing Doruk had, was patience; and he will wait for her to return._

**oOo**

Ahead, at a small roundabout, one car peeled off, leaving the BMW just two cars behind now.

The Lamborghini had nowhere to go, but Athos didn’t trust Doruk not to just barge his way through if he needed to. It wasn’t his car after all.

They were driving through the canyon of narrow streets with five storey buildings on each side. 

Numerous pedestrian crossings stretched across the streets, stark white under the lights above. The streets opened out slightly; the line of tall buildings in the distance skirting the French mountains, making it plain to see where the Principality of Monaco ended and France began. 

Increasing in speed now, as late night traffic thinned, walls along the roadway rising some twenty feet to their left.

They shifted gear at the same time, Athos anticipating Doruk’s manoeuvre and the engines roared, shattering the otherwise quiet of this stretch of road.

They were not following the Grand Prix circuit exactly, but that did not stop Porthos whooping in the back seat.

Then, suddenly, Clarisse’s warning, and Athos peeled left, and they are once more on a single street; cars and a line of scooters parked on the right. Turning; under a bridge; straight on; turning left on a hairpin bend; a view of the harbour ahead, bright lights shining in the water, gold on black. A pearlescent full moon suspended over the dark water.

Faster now, along the front, palm trees on the left. Green vegetation flying past, trees and shrubs. And still, high walls flying by.

The mountains, ever present ahead.

Another crossing; tall white walls on the right, flowing into pastel coloured buildings, pink Bougainvilleas draped over the walls, hugging like bright blankets .The road elevation rising, engines woofing.

Bright umbrellas on the right shading tables overlooking the water; people still sitting there even at this time of night. A huge cliff on the left and the road leading into an archway cut into the rock, through which the road passes. Powerful engine noise bouncing off the hewn rock.

Before them trees, hedges, obscuring the buildings, flowing up the hills. The odd late night scooters flying past them, as they slow once more.

One chance to overtake ahead, and Athos commits it to his memory.

A tight bend, tyres squealing; some pedestrians jumping at the noise.

Accelerating uphill from St Devote into Casino Square and past the floodlit fountain; where people are wont to roam, oblivious to traffic. Soon, their hotel comes into view on the right. 

And then, the twisting tunnel, where Senna and Schumacher’s races had ended early. Emerging from this tunnel into daylight can blind the driver and it is a dangerous place for some. But at night, the tunnel is lit by lights snaking along its length and then the night once more greets them.

_Athos commits that to memory too._

Downhill, past the harbour on the left, sleek white yachts gleaming under the full moon.

A short straight and then the swimming pool complex. Toward the hairpin of Virage Rascasse.

Slightly uphill into a very tight right of Virage Anthony Noghes. 

Up through the gears to complete first lap.

One circuit completed.

Athos relaxes now. He is used to the fibreglass cast on his arm; knows how to place his fingers on the wheel; grateful for the light steering and he is used to the hisses from Clarisse and the shouts and cackles from Porthos.

The Lamborghini is right in front of them now, and Doruk knows Athos is closing.

Doruk is looking for overtakes, but Athos knows there is only one place where that is possible. He now knows the particular group of palm trees that stand guard over that stretch of road.

This second circuit is a little faster, but only because Doruk is reckless. This time he takes short cuts. People have jumped out of his way at the last minute, alerted by the loud throaty growl of the black beast's engine.

Porthos cranks his own noise up.

The group of palm trees is ahead and the chance of the overtake. If he misses this, he will have to go for another circuit. But he knows they will have been seen on CCTV now, and the police force will be alerted.

Athos times it perfectly; neither Clarisse or Porthos knowing his intentions.

The seven speed dual clutch BMW serves him well, and he pushes the car past Doruk and swings it around in a head-spinning manoeuvre, coming to a halt in front of Doruk, who slams on the brakes.

With a mighty squeal as tyres and the smell of burning rubber, Athos comes face to face with his nemesis.

**oOo**

Deathly quiet.

They stare at each other through their windscreens. All Athos can hear is Porthos breathing; Clarisse is holding her breath; she too, staring at a man she once thought would change her life. 

And he is staring back at them.

Waiting, waiting; some pedestrians becoming curious, stopping to watch.

The quiet revving as each accelerator is gently pumped.

Suddenly, Doruk guns the accelerator and he has taken the bait, narrowly missing pedestrians and hitting a parked car, as he reverses noisily to create some space and then throws the Lamborghini past Athos and off into the night.

Athos swings the BMW around and moves forward, allowing Doruk to disappear ahead of him.

In the distance, Athos hears the police siren, and breathes a sigh of relief.

For it is the Lamborghini that the police are after and they will soon be in pursuit of Doruk, heading toward the tunnel, which is opening up ahead.

Athos keeps pace behind.

His plan is working.

**oOo**

On the balcony of the Hotel Hermitage, the tension was building when the familiar sound of a police siren split the air.

“Athos better be careful,” Constance said, “they could be arrested for this, and we still have to get to the bank tomorrow.”

That sobered them up a bit.

The police were in pursuit now, and their ear splitting siren scatters the late night revellers still on the streets. The number of cars has diminished, but people are beginning to realise there is something going on. Some have started filming on their phones.

“That’s all they need,” d’Artagnan muttered, “Evidence of who’s driving.”

Then he realised that the BMW’s registration was not visible. It had been smeared in something red. They all breathed a sigh of relief. 

Gunning through the tunnel, the police pushed forward and Doruk floored the accelerator, the roar magnified in the enclosed tunnel.

Athos is following.

On the balcony, they could hear the roar of the three powerful engines.

They also heard the terrific crash that reverberated across the otherwise still evening air.

**To be continued ...**


	22. Chapter 22

There was smoke in the distance, over the harbour, obscured by the tunnel and towering buildings above. Constance, d’Artagnan and Aramis stood together on the hotel balcony, holding their breath. Aramis turned and ran from the room. 

d’Artagnan pulled Constance to him and they stood holding each other. They watched below as Aramis ran across the street and disappeared toward the tunnel.

After what seemed like a lifetime, d’Artagnan suddenly heard the BMW in the distance and turned Constance toward it. They watched as it glided slowly toward the Hotel, before turning into a side street and the engine was cut off.

Inside, laid back in the rear seat, Porthos whooped and clapped his hands.

“Now you can’t tell me that wasn’t FUN!!!”

“Now you know how Ayrton Senna felt, but on a slightly slower scale,” Athos replied, opening the door.

**Later:**

Back on the balcony, Aramis told them Doruk’s car had barrelled out of the tunnel too fast, and took off over the harbour wall, bursting into flames before crashing into the water, narrowly missing a multi million pound yacht. The word was, the occupant was dead.

“That ‘appened to Alberto Ascari in 1955,” Porthos said to no-one in particular.,

When he looked up, they were all looking at him.

“World Champion in 1952 and ’53. Overshot the chicane after leaving the tunnel. Flew into the water. Lucky he didn’t drown.”

Aramis stared at his friend, momentarily non-plussed. “So he didn’t die in a fireball?”

“Nah.”

“I’m so glad,” Aramis said.

“Killed four days later at Monza.”

Aramis opened his mouth, but closed it again. Taking a breath;

“Anyway,” he said, looking from Porthos to Athos, his mind on the CCTV cameras outside, “I trust you have hidden the BMW?”

“Don’t worry, they won’t be able to trace our car,” Clarisse interjected languidly, as if she had been on a Sunday drive.

She turned to Athos.

“You owe me a lipstick,” she said. “It takes a lot to obscure a registration plate,” she smirked.

“Expensive?” Athos asked innocently.

“Exclusive,” she replied.

Further along the corridor in a broom cupboard, the maid would, in the morning, find a dead man with a piece of Hotel Hermitage notepaper on his chest spelling out his name and crimes. A mystery female caller had alerted the Concierge of a nearby apartment block of an injured valet in their basement. If they looked hard enough, they would find Savas where Porthos had left him. The CCTV camera at the end of the hotel corridor that overlooked the broom cupboard would have mysteriously stopped working during the night.

**oOo**

As the unfortunate maid was opening the broom cupboard, Athos was striding out onto the hotel terrace. He dropped down into a chair next to Aramis, the only one of his friends apparently up and functioning.

They both looked toward the tunnel. Monte Carlo was a well-oiled machine, and Doruk’s death had not stopped traffic for long. The crowd that had gathered as dawn broke to watch the Lambourgini being winched from the water had dispersed long before Athos had made his way to his bed. Porthos had lamented its loss, but none of them the death of the driver. Even Aramis had been silent on that issue.

“Quite a night,” Aramis said quietly, pouring coffee and handing it across.

“Porthos enjoyed himself,” Athos replied. “I’m just ....”

“What, my friend?”

“I’m just glad I didn’t scratch her bloody car,” Athos murmured, reaching for a croissant, a soft smile on his lips.

Aramis gave a brief shudder.

“I imagine her vengeance would be swift,” he said, turning his face to the warmth of the sun.

“And exacting,” Athos replied.

“No doubt.”

**oOo**

One by one, the others joined their table. They all looked bleary-eyed and exhausted; with good reason. He watched as they slowly came to life, before excusing himself.

“I won’t be long,” he said, as Constance reached up to take his hand. He brought it to his lips for a brief kiss, before making his way back into the hotel.

Fifteen minutes later, he was back, looking relaxed and pleased with himself.

“What ‘ave you been up to?” Porthos asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

“I have booked our flights back to Paris,” he returned, taking his seat.

“When for?” Constance asked, a little sad.

“Three days time,” Athos said, smiling at her.

Aramis and Porthos looked at each other in confusion.

“Is that the earliest?” Aramis asked him.

“No, but I thought we could all do with some rest and recreation. I have extended our hotel booking,” Athos answered.

“Then I have a date at the Spa,” Constance said happily, patting d’Artagnan on the arm.

“And I’ve got a Casino to visit,” Porthos grinned. 

“Better tell your lady friend,” Aramis winked, as the lady herself appeared.

Athos offered her coffee, but she declined, eager to get to the bank and bring an end to their “adventure.” They were all more than ready to see an end to this and get back to normality.

Athos stood to follow her as she swept away, already at the door back into the hotel.

**oOo**

It was a short walk to her bank. They were led down a marble staircase and through several locked doors, before she left him to enter a room full of locked drawers. He leaned against the wall outside the room, and folded his arms; as best he could with one wrapped in a cast.

When she emerged a few moments later, she dropped the phone into his hand.

He looked at it.

“Such an innocuous little thing,” he murmured, looking at the object that held Villier’s admission to some very unlawful business dealings. 

“So, we have one more thing to do; send this by Special Delivery to Edward Millington.”

This, along with the decoded evidence from Erogan Yilmaz’s phone, and the additional paperwork retrieved by d’Artagnan would see Villiers’ lawyer arrested, his appeal dismissed and a retrial ordered; which would hopefully lead to a longer sentence and an end to his activities.

“Do you really think it’s over?” she asked.

“Hopefully. The Yilmaz family are dead. Unless there are more sons or cousins out there that we don’t know about, I would say that the Turkish network is now defunct, and their assets seized thanks to Polat Hamdi and his briefcase.”

They left the bank and emerged into bright sunshine. Clarisse turned her face to the sun, as Athos’s attention strayed to the window of a car rental company.

“Come for dinner tonight,” she suddenly said. “If your merry band allows you out on your own.”

He laughed, reaching for her hand.

“Alright. I am sure they will cope without me for the evening.”

“And the night,” she added, smiling. “I will serve you the local delicacy.”

He looked at her, and raised an eyebrow.

It was his turn to smile as she attempted an innocent expression, that didn’t quite come off.

“I will look forward to it,” he murmured.

He thought about what Porthos’s reaction would be; he seemed to be collecting friends with benefits.

**oOo**

When he returned to the hotel, he found Aramis and Porthos still on the terrace, enjoying the sun.

“All done?” Aramis asked.

“All done,” Athos confirmed. “I’m arranging Special Delivery through Reception. I think Millington will want to give Villiers the news in person.”

“It’s been a September to remember,” Porthos said quietly.

They spent another hour, chatting and watching the world go by. Constance and d’Artagnan had left earlier in pursuit of fun. Athos rose first, he had booked a massage to ease the aches and pains in his shoulders.

“Watch your arm,” Aramis said, smiling as Athos rolled his eyes. 

“I can hardly miss it,” he smirked, waving his cast around, before taking his leave of them.

“I’ll meet you here later, but don’t wait up for me tonight,” he said over his shoulder to hoots from Porthos and Aramis.

He was still smiling as the elevator doors closed on him.

**oOo**

That evening, Clarisse let him into her apartment and he watched her walk in front of him, admiring the view, as always. She led him into the main living area.

It was a luxury apartment, with five bedrooms.

“Why would you want five?” he asked.

“It’s an investment,” she had answered.

He knew she had come from nothing, and that this apartment represented success to her. She would guard it with her life. Maybe she would eventually sell it, but at the moment, he could see she was in her element. Her lifestyle was funded by the gems she had taken from the safe at the home she had shared with George Villiers. He reckoned she had earned them. Whatever else she did to increase her bank balance, he did not want to think about.

“I’m impressed,” said Athos, sincerely.

“Where are the others?” she was asking, breaking into his reverie.

“Porthos is in the casino; Aramis is keeping a watchful eye on him. d’Artagnan took Constance for a ride into the mountains on his motorbike this afternoon, and they have yet to return. She was very excited; she changed her clothes three times.”

The large picturesque windows gave a wonderful view of Monte Carlo and the surrounding Riviera at night; the lights in the marina and bay below twinkling and reflecting in the water. The room was exquisitely and tastefully furnished and he realised that this was a side he had not seen of her. He had mostly seen her hard edges, glares and sneers. Occasionally been victim to her well-practised flirting and provocative body language. Often, he had been subject to her teasing innuendos. On rare occasions; her vulnerability. Here tonight, he was seeing another side to her. He wondered how long it would last, ever cautious of her. 

She showed him proudly around, pointing out the detailed mouldings, the custom-made bathroom (with double bath, she emphasised, holding his gaze); fully equipped kitchen; probably as used as his own in Chelsea, he laughed to himself. He could not see her cooking, somehow.

As she told him about the apartment block’s spa and sauna, he suddenly realised that the tour had ended in a large, sumptuous bedroom. 

“How is your blood pressure now?” she purred, coming up behind him.

“It’s fine,” he smiled softly, “Aramis took it only an hour ago.”

He turned to face her;

“Would you prefer to go out to dinner?” he said, reaching out to run his finger lightly along her collarbone. “I know a nice place in the mountains. It’s not far and it stays open until 3.00 a.m."

“It’s only 8.00 pm.” she said, “that’s seven hours away.”

“I know,” he answered, pulling out his phone and booking a table. “They’ll wait for us.”

Fortunately, the valet had parked his Porche Spyder in the underground garage. They had quite some time before the restaurant in the mountains was expecting them. 

**oOo**

Later, the valet retrieved Athos’s Porsche. They were still in time for their dinner date. She practically purred when she saw its smooth lines. That made him smile. However she obtained it, she was new money. This was all still an adventure. Some day, she would be jaded by the whole circus, but for now, he was happy to please her. 

She never asked how he had come to be driving such a beautiful car only hours after flying in. That was the power of money. She ran her fingers along the glossy gunmetal grey paintwork. He was lost for a moment at the sensuality of that small movement. Shaking his head, he leaned forward and opened the door for her.

“I want to go fast now,” she said, climbing in but not taking her eyes of him.

“I think I can satisfy that particular demand,” he said.

He climbed in, and a moment later, gunned the V10 engine, which roared into life.

Spinning the back wheels, they took off into the mountains.

**End**

**oOo**

**EPILOGUE**

Later, they would learn that before her terminal illness took her, Marianna Yilmaz had been befriended by George Villiers. She had told him about Metin. Villiers had persuaded her to write a letter to her husband, telling him what his brother had done, and that as a result of the assault, Doruk was Metin’s son.

Before Erogan could react, she had died. The letter had remained in his desk and he had locked it away, lost in his grief.

Villiers had intended the reaction from Erogan would result in Metin’s exile, or death; thereby removing him from the picture, leaving the way clear for Villiers to work with Erogan, a much more stable influence. Villiers had recognised Metin’s psychopathic tendancies, and that these had obviously been passed on to Doruk, his natural son.

It was that letter that d’Artagnan had found and passed to Bulut which had resulted in his violent reaction and Metin’s death. Villiers had, through d’Artagnan’s action, achieved his aim of getting rid of Metin. Villiers had loved Marianna. With her black hair and green eyes, she had been the only woman he had ever loved.

**oOo**

**A/N:** I am the owner of a Poetic License. It covers many things. In this story, satphone algorithms and saline applications and the use thereof; and all things medical. It comes in handy, so I will renew it when it expires.

Geographical locations are all the result of research. I have never been to Turkey or Monaco. One day, perhaps. But I do own a Mojito-flavoured lip balm, and the temporary magazine cast is documented on-line, and I liked the idea. 

Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> "Clarisse" is the English interpretation of "Clarick," a name sometimes used by Milady de Winter in the Dumas novels.


End file.
